


And Do Abominable Things With Grace

by The_Dancing_Walrus



Series: Abominable Things [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Ableism, Drift Side Effects, Hannibal is Hannibal, Human Experimentation, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Neurodiversity, Scarification, Self-Harm, The Drift (Pacific Rim), Unethical Experimentation, Violence, lack of consent to medical procedures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-08-24 12:29:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8372302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Dancing_Walrus/pseuds/The_Dancing_Walrus
Summary: 'When it started, when the first Kaiju staggered through the breach half the world was sent scrambling for an answer or a solution. When the second one made landfall it got desperate, it got dirty.The Shatterdomes were built around what worked. And the Jaeger program wasn’t created with brave, upstanding volunteers.'In which the Drift is developed in the dark, using whatever experimental subjects come to hand. And Hannibal and Will Graham do whatever they need to in order to survive.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RedHead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedHead/gifts), [Soundingonlyatnightasyousleep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soundingonlyatnightasyousleep/gifts), [cosmolights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmolights/gifts).



> And seeing cool nurses move on tireless feet  
> To do abominable things with grace,  
> Deemed them sweet sisters in that haunted place  
> Where, with child's voices, strong men howl or bleat.  
> E. Rickword
> 
> Thank you to Soundingonlyatnightasyousleep for all the awesome Hannibal metas, without which this would not be. I uh....hope it lives up to expectations and isn't too horrible?
> 
> Thanks also to cosmolights for the Lithuanian translations, all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Oh and forewarning? This isn't rated for sex, it's rated for torture. Sorry.

When it started, when the first Kaiju staggered through the breach half the world was sent scrambling for an answer or a solution. When the second one made landfall it got desperate, it got dirty.

 

The Shatterdomes were built around what worked. And the Jaeger program wasn’t created with brave, upstanding volunteers.

 

-

 

It felt a little like he’d lost time again, except he couldn’t remember exactly where the last place he’d been was. It slipped away when he tried to grasp it, foreign and inconsequential.

 

It didn’t matter where he’d been or what he’d been doing or the missing hours (days?) in between. He was in a forest, evergreens, snow on the ground and blood on the snow, a cabin just ahead-

 

The blood should stand out, he could smell it, powerfully fresh but the thing that stands out as he slowly climbs the steps to the cabin are the teeth. They’re in one patch of red among many, in the centre of a pattern of drops just to the side of the stairs. Like waste-

 

They’re very small.

 

Slowly, gently, Will opens the door.

 

There’s more blood in the entrance, seeping into the floor. It leads off to the right and Will follows it, heedless of footprints and contaminating the scene. He feels absurdly calm, like he’s floating a few miles away-

 

He’s aware, distantly, that this is wrong. If this is a crime scene Jack should be here with a small mob of forensics specialists and Agents and local police. If he’s himself he shouldn’t feel so detached. And if he’s trying to fit into the killer then he’s got something desperately wrong. Nothing about the great sprays of blood suggests serenity. There’s fury in this design.

 

It feels like a dream of a crime scene but he’s never visited new crime scenes in his dreams-

 

The blood leads to a kitchen. There are three bodies, two children, one adult. The entirety of the man’s torso is torn and red, viscera flooding out over his limp arms and legs. Will isn’t sure if he’s actually dead but if he isn’t he soon will be.

 

The girl, her head has been smashed to pulp but the torn fabric around her was a dress, is partially dismembered. A chunk of her small thigh is missing.

 

The boy (perhaps 9?) stands near the sink, his back straight and his hands behind his back. His face looks as if he is trying to show distress.

 

Will sinks into a crouch by the door and the boy’s posture doesn’t change. There are tiny blood droplets, like freckles, across his face and Will knows there’s a knife in his hidden hands.

 

“Hi.” Will says softly.

 

“Hello.” The boy replies.

 

Will takes a deep breath and the pendulum swings-

 

He’s not sure what he murmurs as he works it through or if he closes his eyes. But when he looks up the boy’s expression is sharp and there’s something empty in his eyes.

 

“You didn’t kill the girl.” Will says slowly. “You come in later. The man’s on top of her but you’re small and you’re quiet and no one really notices you. You take a knife from the side drawer and you slash up across his spine. He turns and hits you and you fall. But he turns too far and you don’t drop the knife. It’s easy to plunge it up into his guts. The knife’s sharp. You drag it across. He staggers away to the corner and falls against the wall. You leave the knife in him until he stops moving then you get it back. You wash the knife. The girl’s already dead and that makes you angry. You cut her corpse because you’re angry. You…take pieces because it makes you feel better. She hasn’t left you because you’ve still got a piece-”

 

Will trails off. The boy puts the knife on the side board.

 

They stare at each other.

 

“I’m with the FBI.” Will says after a while, although the boy didn’t ask.

 

The boy frowns. He does it almost methodically, as though he had to learn the motions of expression. His eyes are a brown that’s almost maroon and something about that is familiar but it slips away.

 

“You speak very good Lithuanian.” The boy says and then-

 

-

 

“-no signs of seizure.” The man above him said, he was pulling back Will’s eyelid with a thumb and Will yelled at him to get the fuck off but the words didn’t come out…right-

 

The man didn’t back away, he was staring into Will’s eyes and- _dispassionate, he’s done this a hundred times before and he’s…no not bored, there’s something different this time, something a tiny bit interesting. He’s not interested in hurting people, he’s not interested in helping them. If you’re on the table you’re not people anymore._

 

Will thrashed, pointless in six point restraints and he almost got the man’s thumb in his eye for his trouble, but he was panicking-

 

He screamed and it was coming back in bits and pieces, encephalitis, Abigail’s ear, the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane and then-

 

There was a mask, like a hockey mask, over his face so he couldn’t bite. Will couldn’t remember ever biting anyone before. The man caught the mask’s straps and used them to turn Will’s head back where he wanted it.

 

This wasn’t Baltimore.

 

He couldn’t remember leaving Baltimore. He could remember the mistrial, the judge strung up like a trophy. He could remember Beverly coming in to tell him they’d arrested Hannibal Lecter, that he was being held somewhere in the same facility. There was going to be another trial. Alana had believed him the next time he’d told her he was innocent. His lawyer hadn’t and-

 

He couldn’t remember another trial.

 

The man poking at his eyelids ordered Will to smile and he thrashed.

 

“Atstok nuo manęs!ˮ The sound came sudden and shocking, because that was his voice, Willʼs voice but it didn‘t sound like ʻget off meʼ at all. “Ne!ˮ

 

There was something heavy strapped over his head, he could feel it when he tried to turn away.

 

“No signs of a stroke.” The man continued. “He’s agitated but he seems alright. I’ll check the other one.”

 

The other-

 

The man stepped back. Will turned his head as far as he could.

 

There was another gurney to his left and lying on it, strapped down in six point restraints with a mask over his face and a machine like nothing Will had ever seen over his head, was Hannibal Lecter.

 

He looked like hell.

 

Will watched silently as the man leant over Hannibal and put two fingers to his neck.

 

“He’s breathing. Pulse is….about 100 beats a minute.”

 

The man poked at Lecter’s eyelids and Hannibal stared impassively back. After a moment he announced that Hannibal hadn’t had a seizure or a stroke.

 

“Both subjects alive and well Doctor.” The man declared- _bemused, this hasn’t happened before, he’s not quite sure what to do now it has._

 

And that- Will wasn’t sure he’d wanted to know that.

 

“Ei!” He called and the sounds coming out of his mouth were still wrong, disconnected from the words in his head.

 

But Hannibal jerked and turned. He caught Will’s eye- _surprised, genuinely surprised_ \- Will forced himself to focus, tried to make the words right but what tumbled out of his mouth was-

 

“Kas čia dabar vyksta?”

 

He wasn’t sure what was crazier, expecting Hannibal to understand or watching the moment of shock when Hannibal _did_.

 

“I don’t know.” Hannibal rasped.

 

People filed in, a mixture of white and Chinese all in the same dark blue-grey coveralls. They moved behind him and Hannibal and Will watched as they carefully unhooked whatever the hell that thing on Hannibal’s head had been and-

 

Will caught Hannibal’s eye again, his expressions were subtle they always had been and Hannibal’s face was as blank and calm as Will remembered but-

 

_I do not clench my fists. I do not thrash. I test the strength of the restraints only when the guard is not looking. They are up to standard and I can find no weaknesses-_

 

His pupils were dilated, his breathing wasn’t quite even and-

 

Then the person behind Will hit something on the gurney and they were wheeling him out.

 

-

 

The second time they do it he remembers being strapped down and one of the technicians intoning that they were initiating in 3- 2- 1-

 

It doesn’t hurt exactly, it’s disorientating and unpleasant but not painful. His vision bleeds to white and things flicker in the blank expanse. His father’s face, Jack’s, then the first dog he ever rescued bounds by and-

 

“Will.”

 

He turns and Hannibal’s there, standing in the same BSHCI jumpsuit Will’s wearing. He’s tired and drawn and Will can _feel_ it as if it’s under his own skin.

 

Will takes a breath. “What’s going on?”

 

“I don’t know.” Hannibal replies and somehow Will knows it’s true.

 

He laughs breathlessly. “Well we’re _fucked_ aren’t we?”

 

“Language.” Hannibal says mildly.

 

Will turns away and scrubs his hands over his face. He thinks about how he trusted Hannibal and Hannibal framed him for murder. Hannibal lied to him about the swelling in his brain just to see what would happen. Hannibal-

 

Will doesn’t speak, but his voice echoes furious through the empty white space anyway.

 

“We are _so_ far from _friendship_ the light from it wouldn’t reach us for a million years!”

 

He can see his own face saying it, the vicious snarl on the other side of the cell and he feels something small and sharp in his gut-

 

Will takes a deep breath and the shadow of his face fades to grey.

 

“That actually hurt you?” Will asks.

 

“Yes.” Hannibal states.

 

 _Good_ , Will doesn’t say, but it hangs in the air anyway, sensed.

 

He doesn’t want to talk to Hannibal, but he wants to talk to the man he thought Hannibal was. And Hannibal very much wants to talk to Will. In the strange white space where their minds blend together Will’s indecision tips the scales in Hannibal’s favour and they can both feel it.

 

Will sighs and accepts that this time he may actually be going mad.

 

“Doubtful.” Hannibal replies.

 

“I’ve hallucinated before.” Will points out.

 

Behind him the feathered stag looms and the tar-black man with antlers. (Will sees his nightmares as a decent enough argument but Hannibal thinks he’s being ridiculous.)

 

“But I haven’t.” Hannibal counters. “We never spoke about Mischa and yet the first incidence was centred around her death.”

 

“So you’re going mad.” Will suggests, more because he knows it will frustrate Hannibal than because he believes it.

 

“What tests did they perform?” Hannibal inquires. “After they separated us.”

 

“MRI.” Will answers. “I don’t know what the rest were.”

 

The echo of them flits, grey over the white and Will suddenly knows that they did the same things to Hannibal. He also knows what more of the tests are called and-

 

“ _Why_ are they interested in our brains?”

 

Hannibal shifts slightly and then shrugs. “You are the profiler, Will. You tell me.”

 

The first thing that comes to mind is treatment but he dismisses it almost instantly. Wherever they are it doesn’t feel like a hospital and if they were trying to affect emotional or behavioural change then there would have been psychiatrists, surveys-

 

A face swarms up from the white and then they’re both looking out of the same pair of eyes. It happens quickly, they’re being wheeled past but the woman watching with squared shoulders and obvious distaste stands out for the way the others defer to her. She is white, blonde, mid thirties, slender, glasses, Will is certain he’s never seen her before which means this is Hannibal’s…memory.

 

Will thinks, fleetingly, that Hannibal must have an excellent memory and as soon as it occurs to him he starts to feel…smug.

 

Will shakes his head and focuses. The name on her tag is ‘Dr C Lightcap’

 

“It’s not treatment.” Will repeats. “But it has purpose-”

 

“Just not for us.”

 

“Or for her.” Will says. “Not directly anyway. She hates this but she has to there’s something-”

 

The technician, the one that poked at them the first time, comes to mind and his face briefly stains their space.

 

“What about him?” Hannibal enquires.

 

“He didn’t expect us to survive- No.” Will corrects. “He didn’t expect us to survive…intact. It’s a case study, an experiment-”

 

“To what end? What is the benefit of this?” Hannibal gestures to the emptiness around them and Will has to admit he doesn’t know.

 

The whiteness around them ripples. They move at the same time, in synch. There’s urgency in Hannibal’s expression and God help him Will can see it in his own too, reflected through Hannibal.

 

They don’t have time-

 

“Reproducibility.” Hannibal says and-

 

-

 

Will came to the surface speaking English the second time and they went through the same routine of checks and tests as before.

 

He could feel Hannibal behind him when they were taken back to separate cells, like a shadow peering over his shoulder. Will wasn’t sure if it was another by product of his…condition or a side effect of the machine.

 

The profile suggested research of some description, scientific process, the ‘greater’ good.

 

The scientific process demanded reproducible results. Properly performed that meant any session would be repeated three to five times under as near to identical conditions as possible before any change was introduced.

 

It made him think of sounders-

 

-

 

Dr Lightcap came to look at them after the third session while they were still strapped down in the machine. The whiteness had faded from his vision but Will could feel Hannibal in his head like a stain.

 

It should have been like profiling but it wasn’t and he couldn’t quite think why feeling someone else’s thoughts and emotions should be so different like…this but it was. There was an echo to both of them, but even that was different. This was-

 

This was more than just murder, it was everything, all the things he could never intuit, the most intimate violation. It didn’t matter that the whiteness had receded, that the machines were off, he could feel Hannibal’s anger like a physical thing. How dare _she_ do this to Hannibal (and coincidentally Will).

 

As if Hannibal hadn’t torn people open, ripped out their organs and turned their corpses into display pieces.

 

Dr Lightcap stepped into their line of sight and Will felt the moment Hannibal decided to hurt her.

 

No, that wasn’t right- He felt the moment Hannibal decided _how_ to hurt her.

 

“How are you feeling?” Lightcap asked apparently without sarcasm.

 

Will bit back a snarl. “Like hell.”

 

She glared but it didn’t have much heat to it- _she doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to look at us, to talk to us. She doesn’t want to be reminded that we’re human and we’re here because of her-_

 

“Headache?” She asked, clipped and business like.

 

Will shook his head. _Wishing she’d brought a clip board, something to look at so she doesn’t have to look at-_

 

“Vision problems?”

 

“No.”

 

“Mobility?”

 

“You strapped us to gurneys.” Will replied and her weak glare made another brief appearance. “Are you going to tell us what you’re doing?”

 

She looked away. She hadn’t made eye contact during their short conversation but she’d managed to keep a more or less firm focus in the general vicinity of Will’s head. Half a dozen conditions that made retaining eye contact difficult came to mind and Will wasn’t sure if that piece of analysis was his or Hannibal’s.

 

“Will you at least tell us why?” Will requested, in a soft, reasonable tone.

 

Vulnerable, but not quite pleading.

 

 _Blatantly manipulative_ , that felt like Hannibal’s opinion-

 

Dr Lightcap tensed and forced herself to meet Will’s eye.

 

“The experiments we run here are for Kaiju containment and termination.” She intoned.

 

“You justify yourself by citing the good you will do.” Hannibal murmured.

 

 _She fits the profile_ , he didn’t say.

 

“The Kaiju are the greatest threat mankind has ever faced.” Dr Lightcap said without melodrama, a simple statement of fact.

 

“And you justify human experimentation by choosing criminals as subjects.” Hannibal suggested.

 

 _She tells herself we deserve this_ , neither of them said aloud.

 

Lightcap paused. “I appreciate your contribution.”

 

 _Distancing tactic,_ Will thought, _more for herself than us. It’s not working._

 

“Will Graham is innocent.” Hannibal told her, calmly, coolly as if it wasn’t the next best thing to stabbing a scalpel into the point where her collar bone met her neck. “I committed all but one of the murders he was accused of and spent considerable effort implicating him.”

 

He waited long enough for Lightcap to process that before giving her a small, almost kindly smile.

 

“I’ve killed dozens of people. For the most part they died from mutilation. How many of my memories do you imagine my dear Will has relived?”

 

Lightcap’s face twisted into something ugly and disgusted. She had no difficulty focusing on the assistants behind them.

 

“Get them back to their cells.” Lightcap snapped and Will felt Hannibal’s smirk as though it was his own lips.

 

Someone kicked the breaks on the gurney and it shuddered forwards. Will felt like he was going to fall, his hands still strapped to the table with no way to stop himself-

 

It made him want to laugh.

 

“Well, that worked.” Will called as they started to wheel him away.

 

He sensed rather than heard Hannibal agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lithuanian Translations  
> Atstok nuo manęs!- Get off me  
> Kas čia dabar vyksta?- What's happening?
> 
> For reference Nuremberg Code governing human experimentation clearly violated points are:
> 
> 1\. The voluntary consent of the human subject is absolutely essential.  
> 4\. The experiment should be so conducted as to avoid all unnecessary physical and mental suffering and injury  
> 5\. No experiment should be conducted, where there is an a priori reason to believe that death or disabling injury will occur; except, perhaps, in those experiments where the experimental physicians also serve as subjects.  
> 7\. Proper preparations should be made and adequate facilities provided to protect the experimental subject against even remote possibilities of injury, disability, or death.  
> 9\. During the course of the experiment, the human subject should be at liberty to bring the experiment to an end, if he has reached the physical or mental state, where continuation of the experiment seemed to him to be impossible.  
> 10\. During the course of the experiment, the scientist in charge must be prepared to terminate the experiment at any stage, if he has probable cause to believe, in the exercise of the good faith, superior skill and careful judgement required of him, that a continuation of the experiment is likely to result in injury, disability, or death to the experimental subject
> 
> Also I'm still ill at the moment please excuse any delays/odd responses


	2. Chapter 2

After that there were surveys, questionnaires. Thick folders free of pins, staples and paperclips left by silent orderlies in the same tray the food came through. Will had expected interviews but no one came to his cell, no one spoke to him.

 

He wondered if Chilton had left a note on ‘manipulative tendencies’ in his file.

 

He’d ignored the forms at first. He’d closed his eyes and pictured himself in a river casting flies, the water round his waders, the breeze and sunlight-

 

It didn’t work as well anymore. There was blood in the water and the wendigo roamed the bank. The fish he landed had human faces, Hannibal’s victims with hooks piercing their cheeks.

 

Sometimes he thought he heard Hannibal’s voice-

 

The river wasn’t safe anymore. The river didn’t help.

 

And without it he was trapped in a small white box, no contact and nothing else to do but fill in the forms.

 

The first part was easier. It focused on the physical, did anything hurt? On initiation? During the procedure? After?

 

Then it started focusing on how the procedure felt and-

 

Will didn’t want to tell them about Mischa. He wondered if that come from himself or Hannibal-

 

May be he was hallucinating. It would make sense. Dr Lightcap had said this was anti-Kaiju research but Will was damned if he could see how the machine was supposed to help against monsters.

 

And it made sense, that if his mind was building up its own little hell it would put Hannibal in there with him. It certainly made more sense than thinking they’d both been picked at random.

 

Hell was a mental institution where he still had to warp his mind around a killer’s. Until they blurred.

 

Will closed his eyes. He took a deep breath.

 

When he opened them nothing had changed and the walls around him were as white as the liminal space the machine built between his mind and Hannibal’s.

 

He wrote that it felt like drifting, rudderless, on the sea.

 

-

 

With the forms gone there was nothing to do. No clock to mark the passage of time, just the pattern of when someone else chose to turn the lights in his cell on or off.

 

 _My name is Will Graham_.

 

But he didn’t know what time it was.

 

 _My name is Will Graham_.

 

Or where he was.

 

 _My name is Will Graham_.

 

They had the forms. He’d filled them out, given them what they wanted. Why were they leaving him here to fray?

 

He found, at some point time indeterminate, that he’d rubbed a patch of skin on his arm red and raw.

 

He couldn’t remember doing it.

 

It made him think of dogs worrying at stitches, how birds in cages too small would pluck out their own wings-

 

_My name is Will Graham. I live in Wolftrap Virginia. I have seven dogs. My sister died when I was a child and I disembowelled her murderer with a kitchen knife then I ate-_

 

No. That wasn’t right.

 

-

 

Everything was white and then-

 

The high vaulted ceilings of his mind palace-

 

It was becoming more difficult to concentrate on constructing an appropriate place for recent experiences and it was unclear if that was a straight forward side effect of the procedure or simply that one human brain was not equipped to process stimuli from two bodies.

 

He wanted to separate them out. To hold the intimacy the procedure provided in one room and put Lightcap, orderlies, indignities and tedium in another.

 

He could hear soft feet in the halls.

 

It had been happening for some time now: someone else’s footprints embedding themselves in his thoughts. The time since the last test had been quite troubling, in fact-

 

He took the most notable incidents, like soft abstract sculptures in his hands, out of place around the Michelangelo of his own mind.

 

The low level hum of pain and distress, as immediate and distracting as if it was his own (and yet maddeningly distinct), that hovered like persistent flies. The patch on his arm that itched and ached until he had realised that it wasn’t _his_ arm he was feeling.

 

The footsteps were louder, behind him-

 

“Will!” A voice calls and no that doesn’t seem-

 

He frowns, reaches up to his head before he turns and finds his hair is thick and curled rather than fine. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

 

When he opens them again they’re not in Hannibal’s memory palace. He focuses for a moment (somewhere in it there’s a silent question and consent) the whiteness becomes the lake in Wolftrap, thick with ice in winter.

 

They sit either side of a hole in the ice. Preparing fishing tackle allows Will a moment to turn into himself again. Hannibal gives him silence.

 

“It’s not just me.” Will says finally, as he baits the hook. It’s actually comforting knowing that Will’s as much in Hannibal’s mind as Hannibal is in Will’s.

 

“I didn’t realise the solitude would distress you.” Hannibal replies and Will knows he won’t wait as long to fill in the forms again.

 

“I didn’t realise I was breaking and entering.”

 

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call it that.”

 

Hannibal’s smile is small and warm and there is something behind it, something Will might call affection except it doesn’t feel the same as Will’s. Their emotions are like different languages, colouring the air as distinct as French would be from Russian.

 

Will shrugs. “I wasn’t invited.”

 

“And yet it appears you have a key.”

 

They don’t talk much more in that session. Will fishes, tempting trout from the depths. Hannibal watches and thinks of building rooms in his mind for the space Will is gradually carving there. They would smell of the Virginia woods, of ice and winter air and freshly landed trout.

 

-

 

Will came out of the machine shouting in a language only Hannibal seemed to understand. He didn’t regain English until the next day when they plugged them in again.

 

-

 

They sit at the edge of a pier in Will’s memory, a warm summer evening on a lake brimming with boats.

 

“Thank you for sharing this with me, Will.” Hannibal says.

 

And Will sighs because Hannibal means it but he also thought about killing Will earlier today. Will can feel it in the shared space their minds are turning into, the way it would feel to close his fingers in a handful of Will’s hair and drive his head into a wall-

 

The way Hannibal did to Alana-

 

Will scrubs his hands over his face and asks “Is that how you’d do it?”

 

“Perhaps.” Hannibal allows, tilting his head slightly.

 

But he doesn’t think of recipes or his kitchen in Baltimore or how he would display Will’s body. Instead Will’s struck by a memory of Hannibal’s office, Will’s chair left empty.

 

“You missed me.” Will states.

 

It hangs in the air between them, almost colouring the lake, and Hannibal thinks-

 

That he is not sentimental. That he is perfectly capable of discarding things he cares for when they become inconvenient.

 

That it was perfectly performed and far too easy to convince the FBI Will was a killer.

 

That given time he would have corrected it.

 

“You want me to be-”

 

Like you.

 

Hannibal smiles softly at the sunset.

 

“With all my knowledge and intrusion I could never entirely predict you.” He says.

 

It sounds like a compliment.

 

He turns, puts one strong hand on Will’s neck and pulls him close. As if Will needs anything to help him understand-

 

“I can feed the caterpillar and I can whisper through the chrysalis, but what hatches follows its own nature and is beyond me.”

 

“You wanted us to kill together.”

 

It’s not untrue but-

 

“I want you to know you are not alone in the darkness, Will-”

 

“You’re beside me.” Will finishes.

 

“Just so.”

 

After a moment Will looks away and Hannibal removes his hand.

 

They watch the sunset.

 

“Do you think that’s why we didn’t die?” Will asks and Hannibal knows what he means but Will elaborates anyway. “Their machine, this-”

 

“Drift?”

 

It throws him for a moment, hearing his own words echoed back.

 

“She’s using criminals, _insane_ criminals, people no one would miss. We might be the first people she used that…knew each other. In any capacity.”

 

He’d like to name a particular feeling but Will’s feelings are tangled as a thorn bush and while Hannibal’s seem simpler they’re-

 

“Russian?”

 

“I was going to say ‘indecipherable’.”

 

“Currently I am concerned for your mental health.”

 

“I don’t think that’s concern, Doctor Lecter.”

 

“We are dependent on each other. Your stability is my concern.”

 

“Because neither of us is _useful_ without the other.” Will didn’t mean it to sound so bitter.

 

“I believe that is a natural emotional response to the situation.” Hannibal observes. “I cannot imagine doing this with anyone else.”

 

He’d rather die. And Will…Will isn’t sure he’d survive anyone else whether he wanted to or not.

 

“We are conjoined.” Will says slowly and Hannibal inclines his head. “How long do you think it will take _her_ to realise?”

 

“I don’t intend to inform Dr Lightcap. Do you?”

 

-

 

There was a pattern. Three drifts and then isolation, separation, _forms_ -

 

And Will would have to separate himself out again, delineate, distinguish-

 

It shouldn’t have been so difficult but everything in his head was a blur. He’d started seeing the Wendigo again, a stark black shadow on the white walls of his cell.

 

It was harder to feel human outside of the Drift.

 


	3. Chapter 3

They graduated to what Lightcap had obliquely called ‘simulations’ and suddenly it was easy to see how what they were doing could combat Kaiju.

 

It was-

 

It was as if they’d blurred his mind with Hannibal’s so that it would fit into the monstrous metal body. It was dizzying to think that the machine was real, that it was a solid thing, somewhere, stories tall.

 

Will imagined them on the shore, protecting cities like a phalanx and didn’t know whether to find it terrifying or reassuring.

 

Hannibal thought they were an inelegant and unwieldy weapon.

 

Neither of them liked the simulations. There wasn’t room to dwell on shared memories or converse when they were trying to control the weapon. They needed to keep the Drift in that balanced, blank space and concentrate with Lightcap’s voice in their ears.

 

Could they make the weapon stand? Could they make it walk? Pick things up-

 

And they could. If they concentrated.

 

It felt a little like drowning. Like untying knots with hands that would only work so long as you didn’t think about how your lungs were burning and the air was running out-

 

Will _hated_ it. Hannibal hated it and his anger, cold and crushing, lurked around the edges of

their drifting minds.

 

The Wendigo against the white.

 

Will feels it, tensing at Lightcap’s casual commands.

 

“How would you do it?” He asks in a breathless rush.

 

Too late to take it back. He can see Hannibal’s kitchen knives in the corner of his eye, smell thyme and lemon peel.

 

“Slowly.” Hannibal hisses.

 

And then-

 

-

 

Will woke in his cell, in the dark, his head pounding and his heart as quick and fragile as a hummingbird in his chest.

 

He couldn’t remember being brought back to the cell. He couldn’t remember anything since the simulation.

 

 _My name is Will Graham_.

 

He wasn’t even sure how much time he’d lost. The simulation could have been a dream or a hallucination or-

 

His hands were shaking.

 

He curled up around them and tried to breathe, slow and steady, in the hope that would calm his heart. He didn’t know what time it was or where he was so he repeated his name in a whisper into the dark.

 

He didn’t try expanding on it. He didn’t want to doubt the one steady point he had.

 

-

 

“You did not imagine the previous session.” Hannibal tells him when according to Lightcap they’re supposed to be manoeuvring the weapon through a mock-up of a city.

 

The weapon stumbles when they talk, when they think about each other rather than it. One of the technicians rattles off data in the background that neither of them really understand. Something about the Drift.

 

Caring about it would be sensible, concentrating on the simulation would be sensible. This is the reason they’re alive after all. But Will-

 

Will’s mostly relieved and absurdly, horrifyingly grateful.

 

He tries not to think about Hannibal sensing that in the Drift.

 

“You’re not well.” Hannibal murmurs.

 

There’s that feeling, the one Hannibal thinks is concern.

 

And there are a lot of things Will could say to that, he could summarise their situation or-

 

He doesn’t want to think about the contrast between the subtle torture of an empty cell and Drifting with Hannibal Lecter. It’s practically the only human contact he has now and that-

 

Will sighs. He doesn’t know what Hannibal sees in the Drift, just that he pushes them off balance, out of the whiteness and back into memories.

 

They come out in Florence and spend about ten minutes in a particularly good café before someone manages to tear them out.

 

-

 

He doesn’t know how long ago that was. He thinks he might have lost some time again-

 

He feels…disconnected. In a way he can’t compare to the Drift. He might be surrounded by white walls but it’s not the Drift because-

 

The Drift isn’t static. The Drift isn’t blank. He might not always be himself in the Drift but-

 

But he is _something_.

 

Outside of the Drift he sinks into the walls.

 

He can feel it, the concreate slowly swallowing him. He thinks, no he _knows_ , that if he gets up it will stop. And the room is spinning and his head is like a vice and his heart is much much too fast but if he gets up-

 

It will stop.

 

He can’t get up.

 

And the room swirls, walls into ceiling.

 

He puts his hands around his head and it feels like too much with the concrete still seeping over him. Sooner or later it’s going to set. He’ll be buried alive and set in stone, just another part of the walls-

 

He’s peripherally aware that he’s breathing faster. He can hear Hannibal’s voice echoing the wrong way in his head.

 

He thinks that part must be a dream-

 

Then-

 

The pain was sudden and blinding. It made Will fall forwards, retching on to his hands and knees. His head felt like-

 

Like he’d been hit.

 

His hands scrabbled desperately through his hair trying to find a cut, a bruise, a sore spot-

 

Nothing.

 

At least, nothing new.

 

He sat back, clutched his knees and tried to take slow deep breaths.

 

The pain came again, sharp-

 

Will breathed as slowly as he could stand until it faded to a dull throb. There still wasn’t a mark which meant-

 

Which meant it was probably Hannibal.

 

Will staggered to his feet, using the wall to lever himself up. If they were coming for Hannibal then it stood to reason that they were also coming for him.

 

He waited for the next blow.

 

It didn’t come.

 

He breathed-

 

He wondered if he’d be able to find out what was happening if he concentrated. If he’d see what Hannibal was seeing. He wondered if that would help.

 

_Hannibal?_

 

It felt ridiculous, thinking Hannibal’s name, as though it might summon him, as though it might provide answers. It didn’t work that way outside of the Drift, it wasn’t neat, it wasn’t clear-

 

His stomach lurched and he slid back down the wall. He wasn’t sure if the nausea was his or…not.

 

Will closed his eyes. For the first time in a long time he thought of Stammets. Constructing his mushroom garden, trying to build a connection. He’d said that… the spores reached out. Will wondered what he’d have made of the Drift.

 

Another graveyard. Regimented lines of bodies seizing rather than rotting-

 

His head hurt.

 

The door opened and there were people rushing in, more than usual, more than necessary and it was too early for more tests and those were tasers and they were yelling at him to stay where he was and it didn’t-

 

They wheeled Hannibal in.

 

Will couldn’t look anywhere else.

 

The movement, the noise, the _people_ , too close and too easy to…see was like a scream of static that wouldn’t stop. He felt like he might get lost in the racket but there was Hannibal, a steady, silent point in the din.

 

If he could have just focused on Hannibal-

 

But the guards were _nervous_ and they’d never brought Hannibal into Will’s cell before and _Jesus_ he might be going mad but he still knew there was no good reason why they would.

 

He braced a hand against the wall and four different voices shouted at him to stay where he was. Will started to shake.

 

 _Close your eyes_.

 

Will did. He wasn’t sure it helped.

 

He could hear the guards taking off Hannibal’s restraints. His head spun or perhaps-

 

Perhaps that was Hannibal’s.

 

The guards were shouting again. Will opened his eyes and found Hannibal had stepped off the gurney. The mask was still over his face, his arms were still tangled in the strait jacket. He moved towards Will as if he had more right to be there than anyone else. As if he didn’t know there were six tasers pointing at him. Will glanced at the guards and-

 

_Terrified. He’s never done anything like this. He thinks he should pull the trigger but he can’t-_

_She thinks this is insane-_

_Army training. He’d shoot in a heart beat but the project’s too important-_

_Feels sorry for the poor bastards-_

_The scum are getting what they deserve-_

_Doesn’t know what to do-_

 

Will gulped down air and scrubbed his hands over his face, his eyes.

 

“Thank you.” Hannibal’s voice was calm and a touch dismissive, Will didn’t want to look at him.

 

He listened as the guards filed out and waited for the silence to settle around him for his hands to stop shaking and his head to stop spinning.

 

Will opened his eyes.

 

Hannibal was sitting opposite him, far enough to be out of reach. He still had the mask and the strait jacket on.

 

“Will?”

 

“Still here.” Will replied, his voice sounded as shaky as the rest of him.

 

He wondered if he’d know whether he was dreaming. If Hannibal was a hallucination-

 

“You are not going mad.”

 

Hannibal said it as though it was a certainty, it pulled a bitter smile out of Will.

 

“Is that your professional opinion _Doctor_ Lecter?”

 

“Your symptoms are consistent with the effects of solitary confinement.”

 

Will stared at the floor near his foot. He wet his lips.

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“It is well studied.”

 

“How well?”

 

“Negative effects have been known since the 19th century.” Hannibal tilted his head to the side. “Did you want to discuss isolation prison systems, Will?”

 

“No.”

 

He picked absently at the scabs along his arm. Hannibal seemed content to wait.

 

“You asked them to bring you here.” Will said slowly. “Then you bashed your head against…the wall. You used the wall. Until they agreed.”

 

Hannibal didn’t respond. When Will looked up his face was still impassive. He didn’t seem to have moved.

 

“Are you concussed?” Will enquired.

 

“It’s likely.” Hannibal admitted.

 

Will sighed. “So it is your headache.”

 

“Possibly.”

 

“Possibly?”

 

“It is also a common physiological effect of extreme isolation.”

 

_Insomnia, anxiety, depression, psychosis, self-harm-_

 

“Stop it.”

 

“I didn’t say anything. I would suggest that it is unreasonable of you to ask me not to think.”

 

“Think about something else.”

 

_I don’t know how to gauge who I am anymore-_

 

Will winced, his own memory overlapping with the scent of fever. He stared at the ceiling. He took a deep breath.

 

“I’m afraid I remember what happened the last time I had _you_ as my gauge-”

 

“Will,” Hannibal interrupted. “What choice do you imagine we have?”

 

His tone was gentle as he said it, concerned, but he felt-

 

“You’re- you’re really very good at that.” Will said before he could quite stop himself. “Appropriate responses.”

 

He couldn’t make his eyes settle on Hannibal, but they flitted over him enough for Will to see his small smile and catch the slight incline of his head.

 

“And you are adept at deflection-”

 

“Why now? Why like this?”

 

“You don’t consider your condition to be sufficiently serious?” Hannibal asked.

 

Will caught a glimpse of a thought, half-formed or half-seen, about his own self-awareness. He considered telling Hannibal that he was fine.

 

“You hallucinate regularly.” Hannibal interrupted. “You show signs of several dissociative disorders with episodes of depersonalisation in particular increasing. You self harm.”

 

“I-I don’t.” Will protested automatically but-

 

“Look at your arms.” Hannibal instructed and Will did.

 

His forearms were red, covered in raw angry lines. Some of them looked like scratches and some looked as if the skin had been rubbed away. He thought about struggling against restraints but… the marks were in the wrong place.

 

“I’d like you to do something for me, Will. Please touch your arms.”

 

He hesitated, hands shaking, before putting his thumb in the centre of an angry red patch.

 

He knew what Hannibal was going to say before he asked.

 

“It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it might.” Will said thoughtfully. “It feels…rough. Like sandpaper- The scabs are uneven…different stages of healing, different depths of wounds. The edge feels raised. Are you trying to ground me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“OK.” Will took a deep breath, in and out. “OK.”

 

Neither of them moved.

 

Will thought about the textures under his thumb, the small hard dots and streaks of scabs, the soft soreness of new wounds and new skin, the sticky wet texture where he’d rubbed a cut open-

 

“Your shoulder hurts.” Will murmured.

 

“Concentrate on the sensations of your own body. It will allow you to better distinguish-”

 

“What’s mine.”

 

“Yes.”

 

He shifted until his arms were almost crossed. One hand on each arm, mapping abrasions. Will closed his eyes. He could see his own outline like a blurry shadow until he tightened his grip on his arms and discomfort blotted it out.

 

“This- this has been going on for a while.”

 

“Yes.” Hannibal agreed.

 

He felt his lips pull back over his teeth. Curiosity, _Hannibal’s_ curiosity-

 

“Did you want to wait to see what would happen?”

 

Except-

 

“No. No that’s not it.” Will murmured.

 

He scrubbed his hands over his eyes and may be it was isolation or insomnia or the Drift but he couldn’t make out a design. He wondered if Hannibal would answer if questioned directly. He wondered if he’d be able to tell if Hannibal lied.

 

“I give up. Why d’you wait?”

 

“I had thought more drastic measures would be necessary.”

 

“More drastic than giving us a concussion?”

 

Hannibal gave him a mild frown. “Dr Lightcap appears determined to separate us, perhaps originally due to concern for the continuation of her experiments. It is unlikely that she still believes we could harm each other.”

 

“Hypothesis?”

 

“The isolation is a further variable. The Drift functions when we are kept apart, perhaps if we are kept together it will not.”

 

“So she’d rather watch us, sorry _me_ , suffer?”

 

“You said yourself Will, the project is what concerns her. We are components.”

 

Will closed his eyes, thought about Lightcap’s stance and tone and the clumsy way she used words. Like she’d never had to lie. He thought about her absence the first time, her distancing tactics.

 

“No.” Will whispered.

 

“No?”

 

“It’s not…this isn’t _design_ this is…Stupidity.” He shook his head.

 

“Will?”

 

“She doesn’t want us to suffer. She’s telling herself this is all for other people. She’s the _hero_ in this twisted little fairy tale, the one who’s going to kill the dragons terrorising the village. She’s not going to abuse the peasants. It’s not,” Will took a deep breath and tried to look at Hannibal. “This isn’t design. It’s-”

 

“Inconsiderate.” Hannibal suggested coldly.

 

“Ignorant.” Will corrected.

 

It was strange, feeling what Hannibal did. Something icy and jagged caught like a burr behind his ribs. Something bitter in his throat.

 

It felt like dissonance, as though he’d been torn away from some part of himself. Like he was one person fragmenting rather than two merging.

 

“I didn’t think you could hate her any more than you already did.” Will observed.

 

Hannibal didn’t reply.

 

After a while Will staggered to his feet. His legs had gone numb and the sudden blood flow burnt.

 

Hannibal almost winced.

 

“Yeah well, your headache’s bothering me too.”

 

He took a few stumbling steps across the cell and sat beside Hannibal. He tried the straps first but his hands were still shaking. So he pushed off the mask.

 

“This is probably going to take a while.” Will told him.

 

Hannibal didn’t seem to mind.

 

-

 

“They’re coming.” Hannibal murmured.

 

“Yeah,” Will agreed. “I can hear it too. Or I can tell that you can hear it.”

 

“Is there an appreciable difference?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Will stared at the strait jacket, a scrawl of texture across the plain floor.

 

“They’ll take you back to your cell.” Will stated.

 

“It seems likely.”

 

He didn’t think about being alone again. He thought about Jack and Alana. He thought about Beverly scraping blood from under his nails and telling him the evidence suggested-

 

Christ he didn’t want to think about Abigail. He didn’t want to ask Hannibal if they’d eaten her too.

 

“I still want to kill you.” Will breathed.

 

“Because you wish to be rid of me? Or because you wish to cause me pain as I have done to you?”

 

He sounded, he _felt_ so calm. As if he hadn’t found Will’s fantasies about crushing him, slitting his throat-

 

“The beech wood?” Hannibal asked. “Rough, but not without beauty. I believe you could do better.”

 

Will didn’t want to think about ‘better’. He wanted to retreat back to the river, flies and knots and the smell of the bank.

 

Instead the door opened to armed guards.

 

Will dragged his knees up in front of his chest and tried to quash the urge to bang his head against the wall. He was going to be alone again. He was going to sink into the walls again and _fuck_ what did it say about him that he’d rather be stuck in a room with the Chesapeake Ripper than alone?

 

He waited, with his face pressed into his knees. The guards didn’t move.

 

It took him a moment to realise that Hannibal was arguing with them.

 

The words washed over him. He couldn’t quite understand them, they might not have been English. Hannibal was _arguing_ with them-

 

His heart shot up two gears as his breathing went ragged and his hands shook. Will didn’t need empathy and pendulums to know how _this_ ended. You did not _reason_ with the people on the other side of the glass, on the other end of the baton.

 

He curled tighter, waiting for a taser to strike one of them.

 

After a while he realised it was quiet.

 

Will raised his head. Hannibal was still sitting to his left, perfectly composed and just out of reach. The guards were gone. He felt, bitterly, like he should have expected it.

 

Because Hannibal presented a perfect façade. Because he always managed to keep his dignity. Because he said the right things in the right tone at the right time and somehow that made him more _reasonable_.

 

Will wanted to punch him.

 

“That would undermine both of us.” Hannibal said softly.

 

“What did you do?”

 

“I asked them to inform Dr Lightcap of the damaging nature of prolonged solitary confinement before they removed me.” He tilted his head towards Will in what Will thought was probably acknowledgement. “Consider it a test of your theory.”

 

He reached into the gap between them and Will found himself staring at Hannibal’s outstretched hand.

 

“I’d like you to do something for me, Will.”

 

“Is that a peace offering?”

 

The corner of Hannibal’s mouth pulled up. “No. Do you know how to take a pulse?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I would like you to take mine.”

 

It seemed harmless but it was Hannibal.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I suspect concentrating on my pulse might slow yours.”

 

Will hesitated. When he did reach for Hannibal’s hand he moved cautiously, took his wrist carefully, gently. He pressed the ball of his thumb just under the radius and started counting.

 

It felt like diving into a dark pool on a bakingly hot day.

 

By the time he reached fifty he realised he was breathing normally.

 

-

 

Lightcap spoke to them through the door and Will had to glance at Hannibal to make sure her voice was real. Hannibal’s hand closed briefly around his wrist which seemed to be a yes-

 

She probably wasn’t going to come in and Will found himself thinking it was…rude.

 

That probably wasn’t his.

 

The shifting, itching, crawling feeling, that she was staring at them through the tiny observation window, probably was. It felt like she stared at them for a long time. Will tried to focus on Hannibal’s steady, slow, pulse.

 

“I’m…reasonably certain this is against regulations.” Lightcap said finally. “I’m going to have to run it past my superiors.”

 

Neither of them moved. It was a ridiculous bluff that Will didn’t have the energy to call and Hannibal seemed to think was beneath him. _Them_.

 

 _She doesn’t have superiors._ Will thought. _She has funding_.

 

Hannibal’s fingers twitched.

 

“Their regulations allow you to disregard the Nuremburg code but draw the line at sharing a cell?” Hannibal asked mildly.

 

Will could practically feel her fidgeting discomfort through the door.

 

“You clearly want to be in there,” Lightcap stated. “So why should I believe that Mr Graham’s symptoms are actually _caused_ by…”

 

“Our living conditions?” Hannibal prompted.

 

“Yes,” Lightcap replied, sounding a little dismissive. “It could be any number of things, his mental illness, yours, the Drift itself-”

 

“Would you like me to recommend references?” Hannibal said pleasantly.

 

The emotion underneath it made Will want to grit his teeth. Lightcap didn’t seem to pick up on that. She must have- _must have_ \- looked at their files and she still didn’t seem to understand what she had locked away. It seemed stranger to Will than any killer.

 

Hannibal squeezed his wrist as Will’s heart rate spiked. Will went back to counting, Hannibal went on as if he was making small talk with Jack.

 

“Sharon Shalev produced a quite comprehensive sourcebook. It was published by the Mannheim Centre without a paywall. There is also Pete Scharff Smith’s review in Crime and Justice, Shane O’Mara’s thorough work on the neurological effects of torture-”

 

“You’re not being tortured.” Lightcap snapped.

 

“Is that what you think?”

 

Lightcap made a noise that was probably aiming for exasperated. “What about you Mr Graham? Do you want a cellmate?”

 

He caught the edge of something contemptuous from Hannibal and lost count.

 

“Mr Graham?” Lightcap repeated with a demanding edge and god she would absolutely keep them in isolation to spite Hannibal-

 

“Yes.” Will said quickly.

 

She might separate them anyway. Will tightened his grip on Hannibal’s wrist.

 

“You…care about each other,” Lightcap observed. “Don’t you?”

 

Will didn’t answer, it felt like a trap. Hannibal stared in the general direction of the door.

 

But Lightcap didn’t press them. She didn’t excuse herself or say goodbye. She stepped away from the door and started speaking in…Mandarin?

 

“Cantonese.” Hannibal corrected. “She’s asking for our files.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Her voice disappeared down the corridor. After a while someone closed the hatch over the observation window, blocking out even a glimpse of the outside.

 

“You should rest.” Hannibal murmured.

 

Will shook his head. “I can’t sleep.”

 

“Try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The articles and books Hannibal references are real and I've read portions of them. 
> 
> I based Will's behaviour/symptoms on the show and what happens to neurotypical people under these sorts of extremely stressful conditions. Actually now I think about it I’m not sure anyone’s done a study on how the stressors described specifically effect people with various neurological differences. I’d suggest there are good ethical reasons for that.


	4. Chapter 4

Will dreams in a loop. The drive to Wolf Trap starting about half way on the road from Baltimore, forest either side. Parking. Walking up to the porch. The dogs crowding him, a seething sea of fur at the doorway.

 

He offers them treats. From higher up than he normally would so that some of them almost jump. There’s something unsure about it.

 

He wades through the dogs into the room and his eyes catch on the fishing lures.

 

He’s eye level with one, half-constructed, thread caught between finger and thumb-

 

And then he’s driving to Wolf Trap again.

 

-

 

When he woke up he found Hannibal sitting on the floor against the bed, eyes closed. His mind was in Wolf Trap.

 

“You don’t have to do that.” Will said.

 

 _I don’t want to see how you framed me_ , he didn’t say.

 

“You slept.” Hannibal stated.

 

And that was that.

 

-

 

Sometimes he dreams of dark woods. He dreams of being so cold it burns, so hungry the thought of food makes him feel ill.

 

And sometimes he knows they’re not his dreams.

 

And sometimes he doesn’t.

 

-

 

He woke up feeling…calm. Centred.

 

He appreciated how dire their situation was and yet somehow it no longer gnawed at his insides. He felt suddenly unshakably certain that they could, they would, somehow survive.

 

He stood, straight and confident-

 

And found he was looking at himself.

 

Ah, a dream after all then.

 

His doppelganger frowns at him when he meets its eyes. He says ‘Will’ as if it’s a question and-

 

He woke up on the floor with his hands in his hair, Hannibal’s hands on his shoulders.

 

“Will?”

 

“I’m-” He licked his lips and tried again. “I don’t know what just happened.”

 

“Under normal circumstances,” Hannibal said carefully. “I would describe it as a dissociative fugue. Perhaps dissociative identity disorder.”

 

“I thought I was you- Fuck.”

 

Hannibal didn’t ask aloud but-

 

“My name is Will Graham. I am being held against my will. I have no idea what time it is. I am not going to draw a clock.”

 

Hannibal nodded once and sat back, giving Will a little bit of space.

 

Will tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. He wanted to laugh. It came out nervous and hysterical.

 

“You-you don’t know what to do, do you?”

 

Hannibal didn’t answer.

 

-

 

There’s a plastic watch on his wrist, small and black and smooth. It has a button rather than a buckle. It shows the date as well as the time.

 

He doesn’t know where it came from.

 

-

 

Will woke up, found the watch exactly as he’d dreamed it and almost threw it across the room.

 

“I don’t know where this came from.” He said finally, holding up his arm so Hannibal could see.

 

He couldn’t even look at Hannibal’s feet let alone try to meet his eyes. He felt like something was making a fist out of his lungs but Hannibal was calm. Hannibal was always calm-

 

“It came with dinner yesterday. We discussed it several days ago. I suggested that it might-”

 

“Help.” Will said simply.

 

“Yes.”

 

It felt like the truth. Will stared at the watch. They’d been away from Baltimore for almost five months. He thought about the encephalitis, almost hoped. But they both knew what was causing…this.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Will said before Hannibal could ask.

 

“As you like.” He closed his eyes and went back to Venice in the rain.

 

Will tried not to feel jealous.

 

-

 

He’s not sure if there are less simulations, less Drifts, in the following week, or if he just doesn’t remember them.

 

-

 

“Can you understand me?” Hannibal asked while Will was staring at his watch.

 

“Why wouldn’t-” He frowned, thought of that first time coming out of the Drift, words detaching from sounds.

 

He glared at the corner. “What language are you speaking?”

 

“If I answered and they monitor our conversations we would lose an avenue of communication-”

 

“So the weird one.” Will muttered.

 

“It is a minority language.” Hannibal admitted. “I imagine it could take them some time to identify it.”

 

“Do you have something to say or is this an experiment?”

 

He thought Hannibal might eventually take an interest in what Will had managed to pilfer from his head. Will just wondered whether he understood the language or Hannibal.

 

“I would like to discuss the fugue states you are experiencing.”

 

Will frowned at the floor and decided that while that wasn’t a lie it wasn’t quite true either. He thought that if he looked at Hannibal then he’d know but he didn’t want to risk falling into Hannibal’s eyes.

 

“I don’t want you to become me.” Hannibal offered quietly.

 

It felt like the sound a teacup made shattering, like strain. Like worry.

 

“Psychopaths are dull.” Will replied because he couldn’t sift through his own feelings enough to find anything else to say.

 

Hannibal hesitated. It was only a moment but that was apparently long enough for Will to see that whatever Hannibal had to say wasn’t something Will was going to like.

 

He found himself running through a quickfire race of ideas that left Hannibal blinking-

 

Will took a deep breath and thought for a moment he could smell fever.

 

“If you even _think_ the words ‘unorthodox treatment’,” Will hissed. “So help me I’ll-”

 

A few of his fantasised murder scenarios came to mind. Hannibal restrained, the knife sweeping in a wide arch across his throat, the spray of red. It didn’t feel right any more.

 

“What I have in mind is not generally accepted practice but I believe you would find it therapeutic.” Hannibal told him.

 

“Dammit.” Will fisted his hands in his hair and tried very very hard not to pull it.

 

“Will,” Hannibal said gently, the language made it come out ‘vilas’. “Do you believe you are improving?”

 

 _No_.

 

Hannibal stretched his right arm into the space between them, Will’s hand settled at his wrist, thumb over a vein. He wasn’t sure when that had become natural.

 

“You said it was solitary.” Will murmured, it didn’t sound as accusatory as he’d like.

 

“Some of it was.”

 

The most obvious symptoms, Hannibal didn’t say. Depersonalisation, self-harm, the heavy, suffocating feeling so alien to Hannibal it was like trying to understand a colour you just couldn’t see.

 

Will swallowed thickly and found his right hand was flicking and twitching. He’d thought he’d managed to cut that part of himself away.

 

“What do you want?”

 

“To delineate.” Hannibal told him softly. “If we can mark ourselves as separate entities then the episodes may become less frequent and it may be easier to-”

 

“Find a way out of them.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Will hesitated and the real problem with Drifting, with blurring, was that they couldn’t be separate anymore. It wasn’t his decision and it wasn’t Hannibal’s but Hannibal wanted to and Will wavered and that meant Hannibal could tug him gently towards the bathroom and shut the door on them both.

 

No cameras, Will couldn’t remember if they’d ever discussed that or come to the same conclusion separately but neither of them thought Lightcap had put monitoring equipment in the bathroom.

 

There wasn’t much room. A toilet, a tap, a small shelf built into the wall and a shower head built into the ceiling. A drain in the centre of the floor.

 

It reminded Will abruptly of an abattoir. Then Hannibal stretched up and took something sharp out from just above the shower head and Will balked.

 

“No-”

 

“Will-”

 

“ _No-”_

 

He can see it, Hannibal’s mockery of treatment laid out like a slide show behind his eyes. Wounds and pain and healing textures marking them apart and branding him like property, like _meat_.

 

The worst of it is that he can see the ways Hannibal is _right_. It might help-

 

Will says ‘no’ again and-

 

Hannibal offered him the blunt side of the make shift blade.

 

Will stared, working backwards to find where he went wrong.

 

“You didn’t.” Hannibal informed him softly. “But since you object so strenuously, would you find this an acceptable alternative?”

 

“What-” Will couldn’t take his eyes off the little knife. “What did you have in mind?”

 

They both know scars can take a myriad of forms, even the ones limited to skin.

 

“Whatever you like.” Hannibal replied.

 

Knowing, feeling, that he meant it just made it worse, terrifying in a cracking bone deep way, like the wendigo’s antlers pushing up and out through Will’s rib cage. He thought that he could break Hannibal, not all at once like porcelain but chipping away a bit at a time, like bone.

 

And Hannibal could feel that but all that came back to Will was calm, curiosity.

 

A hand extended with the blunt side of a blade.

 

Will took it.

 

Hannibal opened the top of his jumpsuit and shrugged his arms out, knotting it around his waist. He was a little bit soft around the middle. His chest hair had started to grey in places. He had less scars than Will had expected but he found some by virtue of knowing where to look. Stretched, faded memories of a lifetime ago.

 

Hannibal put the toilet seat down and sat.

 

For a while Will stared.

 

“This isn’t safe.” He observed, thinking of infection and tetanus and a dozen other things.

 

Hannibal raised his eyebrows. “Compared to our current standards or those of the world outside?”

 

_You’re stalling._

 

“I don’t know what to do.” Will admitted.

 

“Follow your instincts.” Hannibal advised. “They’re usually good.”

 

Will moved closer, eyes on Hannibal’s chest, his arms and vaguely aware that Hannibal was looking up at his face.

 

He thought of Hannibal’s strong, clever hands, stemming the blood from Abigail’s neck, playing the harpsicord, turning muscle into sculpture on a plate. He wondered if he could cut off one of Hannibal’s fingers with the tiny piece of sharpened metal in his hand.

 

It could take a while.

 

If he took the middle one, from Hannibal’s dominant hand, it would rob them of power, precision, grace-

 

“What would you do with it?” Hannibal asked.

 

Will shook his head, for once Hannibal didn’t press.

 

He thought about carving something on the backs of Hannibal’s hands instead, visible and inescapable. He could brand Hannibal’s crimes where everyone would see. Or he could write something crude that would wriggle under Hannibal’s skin. Something ugly. Something that would offend him.

 

He bent, blade hovering over Hannibal’s forearm at the spot Will’s fingers rested when he took Hannibal’s pulse-

 

“What happens if I cut too deep?” Will wondered.

 

“I’ll correct you.”

 

“And if it’s too shallow?”

 

“I shall correct that as well.”

 

The blade hovered in place, shaking in Will’s hands.

 

He found he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t cut insults into Hannibal’s flesh, not when he was sitting there passively. Waiting for Will to do whatever he wanted-

 

He couldn’t-

 

“Then perhaps you should think of something else?” Hannibal murmured.

 

Will let out a long unsteady breath. And brought the knife down.

 

It was more difficult than he’d expected, the blade was too small, not nearly sharp enough and the blood quickly made it hard to hold.

 

He could feel it wasn’t even. Deeper then shallower and the skin tore rather than sliced when he tried to cut too quickly. The knife kept slipping. The letters overlapped.

 

Looking at it made Will’s throat tighten.

 

 _This is not my design_.

 

“Given how much your hands are shaking I’m not convinced it will resemble your handwriting.”

 

“ _Don’t_.”

 

“What is it?”

 

Will sighed. “The Call.”

 

Hannibal didn’t know it.

 

“Rupert Brooke, it’s-” It felt like a stupid thing to choose now, even though it was far too late to change it.

 

“Tell me please.”

 

Will sighed again. “The eternal silences were broken; Hell became Heaven as I passed. What shall I give you as a token, A sign that we have met, at last?”

 

He didn’t say the rest, but he thought Hannibal picked up some of it anyway, passion and pain and promises to storm the heavens and kill the gods.

 

He thought so because Hannibal was smiling at him.

 

-

 

They panic of course, the normal people on the other side of the doors. Separate them and leave Will waiting in restraints while they decide what to do.

 

He closes his eyes and smiles at Hannibal’s indignation.

 

Somewhere in the facility one of the doctors is probably wishing he’d been put on a different shift.

 

-

 

The poem healed in a jumble of lines, ‘a’s becoming ‘d’s and ‘i’s. The question mark at the end looked like a 3-

 

Will found himself running his fingers over it again and again.

 

“Would you like to do it again?” Hannibal asked.

 

He felt warm, content-

 

Will’s fingers paused on the ‘m’, one of the clearest letters.

 

He thought of Hannibal’s blood covering his hands, congealing under his nails. He wondered what it tasted like and wondered why he hadn’t thought to try.

 

-

 

The scars do make it easier: when one of them can reach Hannibal’s arm. But coming out of the Drift, immobile it almost makes things worse.

 

He’d know who he was if he could just reach his right arm.

 

As Alana Bloom flits over the Drift’s liminal space he reaches across to the man on his left and offers him the memory of a small make shift blade.

 

-

 

 Anticipation made Will fidget and twitch.

 

 _I think this is the craziest thing I’ve ever done_ -

 

Hannibal didn’t comment.

 

“What- What were you thinking of doing?” He asked, looking at the drain, the taps, the gap around the shower head, anywhere but Hannibal’s face and hands.

 

Faces had become more difficult lately.

 

“Your shoulders,” Hannibal said and Will could almost feel it, the knife biting in-

 

“So that I’m aware of it all the time. Even on a gurney.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Will undid his jumpsuit and knotted it at the waist. Turned, and tried not to think of it as an offering despite Hannibal’s eyes on his back. Looking at him as if he was a well presented dish.

 

Will closed his eyes, imagining the first cut, aching and stinging under bandages, itching as it healed.

 

“Scar formation can be difficult to predict.” Hannibal observed. “And my training focused on minimising them.”

 

“Somehow I think you’ll manage.”

 

_Now who’s stalling?_

 

The first cut started at the outer edge of his shoulder blade and went down in a slow smooth sweep. It hurt, worse than being stabbed had in a way. There was no grey shock to fade away into, just the incision gradually growing over his back and his hands braced against the wall and the monster he was letting take him apart piece by piece.

 

He felt Hannibal smile.

 

Will started to shiver. Hannibal lifted the knife away and started a second cut, almost but not quite parallel to the first. It burnt.

 

“What is it?” Will asked.

 

“You shall have to wait and see.”

 

“Funny.”

 

“Hush.”

 

The second cut trailed the first and met it over his spine. Hannibal lifted the knife away and curled his fingers into the top of the wound. It felt like an electric shock. Will swore, tried to move and ended up further against the wall.

 

“I’m going to excise a portion of your skin.” Hannibal informed him oh-so-calmly.

 

“ _Why?_ ”

 

“To encourage the desired effect.”

 

Will ground his teeth. Hannibal hadn’t started cutting again but his fingers were still in the cuts.

 

“How many of these are you going to do?”

 

“Ten in total. One the same size as this, the rest will be smaller.”

 

“I’ll pass out.”

 

“I doubt it.”

 

“And what if I do?” Will intoned.

 

“Then I suppose I shall have to catch you and finish the rest of the design on the floor.” Hannibal answered.

 

“I’m gonna get an infection and die.” Will murmured to the wall.

 

“You will not die.” Hannibal stated.

 

_I will not let you._

 

Will put his forehead against the wall.

 

“I hate you.” He muttered.

 

“That’s a lie.” Hannibal replied and then he started peeling off Will’s skin.

 

-

 

Will does not pass out.

 

He floats off in a haze of endorphins and pain and Hannibal’s glowing pride. At least until the medics take him away.

 

Whatever they put in the IV makes everything warm and soft and blurred at the edges.

 

For some reason that feels alright.

 

-

 

The first thing he could feel clearly, coming down was a sort of vertigo. The world was wavering and it made him feel sick.

 

The first thing he thought was that he needed to find Hannibal. He tried to get up. He wasn’t particularly surprised to find he was tied down. His left arm hurt as much as his back. He turned to look at it and found he wasn’t alone.

 

A Chinese woman, dressed like a doctor rather than a guard. He took in her posture and-

 

“How long have you been waiting for me to wake up?”

 

“Twenty minutes.”

 

He hadn’t expected her to answer, he hadn’t expected her to look him in the eye either.

 

“My arm hurts.”

 

“Really?”

 

_Unexpected, and now she’s curious. They’re not supposed to Drift outside the machine. (no) They’re not supposed to sense the other’s injuries. (nonono-)Wondering what else they can (noIcan’tnotnowHannibal-)_

 

Somewhere behind him a machine let out a distressed bleep that was probably supposed to be his heart. Will closed his eyes and took a deep slow breath.

 

Not being able to see her wasn’t exactly more comforting than falling into her head had been. And sooner or later he was going to have to open his eyes again, look at her, _really_ look at her. Because unless he could think of something really personally persuasive he’d probably end up alone again. He needed to _focus_. He needed to be calm-

 

“We couldn’t sew them shut.” She told him the moment Will opened his eyes. “The cuts will scar.”

 

She looked so stern and serious, as if he was the absolute focus of her attention. It was like being left under a hot lamp to wilt.

 

“That was the point.” Will admitted.

 

“We could have grafted the skin back in place, if we’d found it.”

 

And while Will hadn’t seen it happen he knew that-

 

“He ate it.” Will murmured before he could stop himself.

 

_So much for manipulation._

 

He turned to stare at the heart monitor instead of her. He didn’t need to know how she’d process that and she didn’t need to know that Will would probably find out what his own skin tasted like the next time he Drifted.

 

“I realise that given the circumstances this might sound…insane.” Will began. “But you need to keep us together.”

 

She didn’t answer right away.

 

“Compared to the damage you’ve inflicted on yourselves in isolation,” She said slowly, testing the words aloud. “These are minor injuries.”

 

 _Just more disturbing_.

 

It made Will think of Alana telling him that their natures weren’t….compatible and reading ‘unstable’ in the cant of her head. Hearing it from her later.

 

Something about it made him want to laugh. He’d strived for stable, fought to look _stable_ for what felt like a lifetime-

 

Stable wouldn’t survive…this.

 

He felt a…something sour and it took a moment for him to-

 

He smiled at the heart monitor, recalled as completely as he could the moment Alana leaned closer. Her smile, her smell, the feel and taste of her-

 

His arm suddenly hurt a lot more.

 

_You just have to have the last word-_

 

“Do you know what it is?” Will asked the doctor.

 

“I asked you.” She said quietly. “And you talked about preparing lungs.”

 

It took him a moment, sifting through victims (meat) and performance. He could smell blood, wine, shallots frying, the breeze through the grass. He could hear crows and-

 

“Oh,” Will sighed, of course. “Antlers.”

 

He fell asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of the nothingness of sleep,  
> The slow dreams of Eternity,  
> There was a thunder on the deep:  
> I came, because you called to me.
> 
> I broke the Night's primeval bars,  
> I dared the old abysmal curse,  
> And flashed through ranks of frightened stars  
> Suddenly on the universe!
> 
> The eternal silences were broken;  
> Hell became Heaven as I passed. --  
> What shall I give you as a token,  
> A sign that we have met, at last?  
> Rupert Brooke
> 
> Janice Poon adds to the disturbingness of the internet by leaving us recipes for what Hannibal did to Cassie Boyle's lungs. In case you're curious http://janicepoonart.blogspot.co.uk/p/recipes.html


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not 100% sure I ended this chapter in the right place but anywhere else and the chapter becomes super-long and chapter 6 becomes very short-

Hannibal’s left arm was broken, it didn’t seem to hurt as much as Will’s back did.

 

“I wonder if it’s a matter of your perception or mine?”

 

Will shrugged and then winced.

 

“Did you chose antlers because Cassie Boyle-”

 

 _Was the first time we saw each other_ , Will didn’t say.

 

Hannibal shook his head. “I took it from you not Hobbs.”

 

The stag, huge and feathered. It apparently reminded Hannibal of Rodin, flowing moving bronze polished black. Will sighed.

 

“You’re seeing my hallucinations now?”

 

“Your nightmares.”

 

_It’s not a nightmare if you’re awake._

 

“Isn’t it?”

 

He wanted to say something glib but couldn’t quite bring himself to. Not when Hannibal was thinking about cold and deprivation and Will’s time in the BSHCI.

 

“Most people wouldn’t give those equal…weight.”

 

“They also wouldn’t have the opportunity to experience both from different perspectives.”

 

_Opportunity-_

 

“Are you _enjoying_ this?”

 

“Certain aspects.”

 

Will put his head in his hands and jerked back with a hiss when it pulled the skin on his back too tight.

 

_You can’t deny it’s intriguing._

 

“I could.” Will murmured.

 

“But you’d be lying.”

 

Will didn’t reply. After a moment Hannibal moved closer and stretched his arm into the gap between them. Will took his wrist and ran his fingers along the verse, so illegible now that it was likely only the two of them knew what it was supposed to say.

 

“I wish I hated you.” Will said in a whisper, felt Hannibal accept that as he accepted everything.

 

“I find it interesting that you cannot bring yourself to.”

 

“I’m not sure that I can explain it.”

 

“Perhaps not.” Hannibal allowed. “I am nevertheless grateful for the experience. Even at a remove.”

 

Will sighed, his fingers traced ‘met’ out of the mess of scars.

 

“That’s…not gratitude.”

 

“As you understand it.”

 

“As most people understand it.”

 

“Consider that your own understanding of gratitude may not be-”

 

“Anything like the average.”

 

“Yes.”

 

He held Hannibal’s arm tight and shuffled closer. He felt more then saw the tension along Hannibal’s back like a prickling along the wounds across Will’s shoulders. He put himself inside Hannibal’s space, arranged Hannibal’s arm at his neck away from the wounds.

 

Hannibal let him.

 

“I would have thought you’d find this…inconvenient.”

 

“Less so than I anticipated.”

 

_Perhaps it’s a side effect._

 

“Perhaps.” Hannibal murmured.

 

One of them heard people moving outside the cell and they both tensed.

 

Gently, carefully, Hannibal disentangled himself and stood. He moved silently towards the door and-

 

 _You can’t fight them_ , Will thought desperately.

 

Hannibal gave him a look that didn’t quite capture how ridiculous he thought Will was being. They listened. There were raised voices but neither of them could make out the words.

 

Which wasn’t normal for tests and none of the reasons Will could think of for the change were good.

 

_We know nothing about their current intentions._

Will thought about the first time they’d come out of the Drift, panic and restraints and a finger in his eye. And underneath it there was a current, of lessons so old he couldn’t remember learning them about what happened to people who were taken away for being crazy-

 

_We are no less vulnerable now than we were an hour previously._

 

It was astonishing how much that didn’t help.

 

The shutter on the observation window wrenched back, they looked younger than Will had expected, nervous but not as scared as they should be, it wasn’t hazing or an opportunity to stare at them like zoo exhibits so what-

 

“Mister Graham?”

 

Will blinked and focused on the man’s chin since he was closer. He had badly bleached hair in a kind of avant-garde fashionable cut that Hannibal would have thought appalling. The woman looked as though she was wearing some sort of uniform but Will couldn’t quite be sure. Mostly she looked fed-up.

 

“Hello? Mister Graham?” The man repeated.

 

“Hi.” Will murmured.

 

The man smiled. “You were a profiler right? For the FBI?”

 

Something in him tensed at the word ‘were’.

 

“Yes.”

 

The man turned casually to the woman, spoke-

 

 _Japanese._ Hannibal supplied.

_‘I told you so’?_

 

“And your nakama, your friend, he was a psychiatrist?”

 

“Yes.” Will stated a little more firmly.

 

Something in his tone made the man’s wide smiling mask crack a little.

 

“We’d like you to look at some files. Please.”

 

He held them up to the glass, blocking Will’s view almost completely. They were too far away for Will to make out anything. Hannibal didn’t move to look.

 

After a stretch of silence he put the files into the tray their meals came through. Will didn’t move to take them.

 

On the other side of the glass the man shifted restless from foot to foot.

 

“What are they?” Will asked instead of ‘what do you want’.

 

“Personnel files.” The woman stated.

 

Will waited.

 

“We’re having some…difficulties predicting Drift compatibility-” The man admitted.

 

For a moment all Will could hear was ringing and his pulse in his ears. Hannibal was staring at him, blank and impassive and utterly unafraid and-

 

_They’ll kill us. If we’re not useful they’ll-_

 

But Hannibal knew that, of course Hannibal knew that.

 

Will reached shakily for glasses that he couldn’t wear any more, turned the gesture into a pinch at the bridge of his nose.

 

“-but none of our psychiatrists have Drifted.” The man continued when sound came back. “We thought that with your insight we might be able to make some headway.”

 

His smile was back. Will couldn’t look at it without thinking of Gideon, organs strung like Christmas decorations from the trees-

 

Hannibal finally moved from his perch beside the door. He took the files and the sudden unexpected movement made the man on the other side of the glass start.

 

Hannibal flicked the first file open with one hand. The first page burnt behind Will’s eyelids like an after image when he blinked. In front of him the man was-

 

 _Someone he knew well died in the machine._ Will could see it, a volunteer smiling and going through reassuring conversations by rote until everyone around them had almost believed it. The way they’d have seized in the machine, the wail of the monitoring equipment around them, the desperate scramble to get them out before too much damage was done. It had been too late-

 

Will blinked. Hannibal was staring at him. The observation window was closed. The people on the other side of the glass had gone.

 

“I thanked them and said that we would do what we could.” Hannibal stated and it was true, it _felt_ true- “They may provide us with a pen.”

 

Will nodded to a spot on the floor, a ballpoint pen might make a lockpick, might be enough to get at least a hand out of restraints.

 

“Yes.” Hannibal replied. “My thoughts exactly.”

 

He moved back to Will’s side slowly, as though he might startle and placed the files on the floor between them. He started opening them, scanning over faces, names, countries at a speed Will couldn’t keep up with because-

 

“If we can’t do this-” _If we’re not useful anymore_. “They’ll kill us.”

 

“Yes.” Hannibal agreed blandly. “I know.”

 

“That doesn’t worry you at all.” A statement not a question.

 

After a moment Hannibal looked up and caught his eye.

 

“No.”

 

Will ducked his head to the files and tried not to think about how much they looked like victim profiles.

 

“You’re finding that easier.” Hannibal stated.

 

“What?”

 

He wasn’t paying attention, he _wasn’t_. He was thinking about Vic Tunari of California, he _was_.

 

“Eye contact.” Hannibal replied in a tone that said he knew Will was lying but was prepared to be gracious enough to play along.

 

“It’s not because it’s easier. With you it’s like-”

 

“-looking in to a mirror.”

 

Will sighed. “You make it sound-”

 

_Like I think I’m becoming you._

 

Hannibal shook his head. “Obviously not.”

 

Will put the Tunaris’ file aside and picked up another at random. There was an unusual number of twins in the selection, he noticed-

 

“You’re not an extension of me.” Will said finally.

 

_I don’t want to get used to thinking that you are._

 

_I found it surprisingly helpful._

_You would._

 

“Do you think they know what they’ve volunteered for?”

 

“Doubtful.” Hannibal paused to separate one of the files, sliding one Tamsin Sevier towards Will. “I imagine it would be difficult to fully appreciate without-”

 

“Experience. It’s going to make them crazy.”

 

“You think so?”

 

“Have you been reading these files?” Will asked. “Prison wardens, athletes, teenagers, accountants, shopkeepers, _journalists-_ ”

 

“I believe the word you are searching for is ‘ordinary’.”

 

“This is going to destroy them.” Will whispered. “You-”

 

_You’d have to be crazy to survive this-_

 

He could feel Hannibal raising his eyebrows. Somehow the sensation seemed to support his point.

 

“There won’t be any one like us in these.” Will murmured, he wasn’t sure if that was good or…not.

 

“No.” Hannibal agreed and his voice at least was gentle. “They wouldn’t allow it.”

 

 _Don’t make them your priority_ -

 

Will took a deep breath. He ran a shaky hand through his hair.

 

“OK.” He didn’t sound it. “OK.”

 

He shuffled closer again and he wanted to take Hannibal’s hand but it seemed unfair when he couldn’t use the other one.

 

“OK. What do you think of Sevier?”

 

-

 

It’s not, or at least not entirely, similarity.

 

If it was they wouldn’t Drift.

 

The darkness in them is yoked to different things, spreading out in opposite directions from one shared point. Like the blades of a propeller it somehow allows them balance.

 

They rotate around their loneliness. Hannibal surrounded by the diminutive ghosts of pathetic, impressionable creatures he can’t see as human. Will fighting to be understood, to be _seen_ , when society’s current seems determined to sweep him further and further away.

 

They Drift because there is a point between them where they can both be still, not because nothing in them moves in opposing ways.

 

They Drift and it makes the pieces that oppose each other make sense. It translates their foreign, anomalous emotions and shows each of them things they could not otherwise feel.

 

And then it’s wrenched away, leaving Hannibal fighting the storm of Will’s guilts and fears, Will drowning under the weight of Hannibal’s detached indifference.

 

-

 

No one told them whether their suggestions had been good ones. But they were given files again.

 

-

 

The first Ranger they met was English, black and stood with the kind of rigidity that seemed military. It took Will a moment but-

 

“Wing Commander Pentecost,-”

 

“-what can we do for you?”

 

Stacker Pentecost didn’t blink or look away.

 

_He thinks we’re…posturing and he’s not afraid._

_Why would he be? There are-_

_-worse monsters._

 

When Pentecost spoke it brought Will blinking back to the present. Hannibal’s focus had never been anywhere else.

 

“Every other expert here agrees that Tamsin Sevier and myself are Drift compatible. Why don’t you?”

 

He sounded blunt, straightforward but there was tension in his jaw, in his shoulders and-

 

Will closed his eyes. He could see Sevier’s file, a shock of dyed red hair and a ring through her eyebrow that wouldn’t have been allowed in the American military-

 

“We didn’t say you _aren’t_ ,” Will said, more to the door than Pentecost.

 

“Nakajima is a better match.” Hannibal finished, as though it were simple.

 

“Why?” Pentecost repeated.

 

They both had a different answer. Hannibal’s centred on the lack of focus in rage, how easy it was to fall from the blank steady points in the Drift and drown in shared memories. He stood, waiting as poised as though they were in his office. Will pulled his knees in a little closer and stared at his feet.

 

“Do you want to see your sister die?”

 

Sevier’s file hadn’t wasted more than two lines on the story but Will could _see_ it. Trespasser rolling through San Francisco like an earthquake that wouldn’t end. The jets so dwarfed by its bulk they didn’t even look large enough to be parasites. Missiles popping against its hide with less effect than splinters-

 

And in the midst of the chaos, the smoke, the flares, the roars of the Kaiju and the death of a city, a single plane falling.

 

It was easy to see really. Luna Pentecost’s death was written on the photo in Tamsin Sevier’s file. He could read it again, in the line of her brother’s jaw.

 

“You would.” Will told him gently. “If you Drift with her. Over and over.”

 

“So you’re trying to be kind?” Pentecost stated in a tone that made his doubts clear.

 

“No.”

 

“Shared memories, turbulent emotions and trauma are all likely to disrupt the Drift-”

 

“You’d be inconsistent.” Will summarised.

 

 _The bigger risk_ , he didn’t say. Because Pentecost with his military posture and stubborn set expression could take that risk, _would_ take that risk for the sake of a better result later against the Kaiju.

 

But they _couldn’t_. Not when every simulation result said something about their _utility_ , not when every success was a reason they should stay alive.

 

“That seems to go against Dr Lightcap’s theory.” Pentecost suggested.

 

“The good doctor does not tend to share her theories with us.” Hannibal replied and Pentecost’s frown deepened.

 

He didn’t respond straight away. In the pause Will closed his eyes and tried to summon the image of his porch in the evening, the dogs racing out. It flickered in his mind, overlaid with the cell and the door and Pentecost’s set expression.

 

“Dr Lightcap thinks that familiarity and a…degree of attachment is necessary to successfully Drift.” He said carefully.

 

Hannibal glanced at Will.

 

“Not inaccurate.” Will murmured.

 

“No.” Hannibal agreed.

 

“I’ve known Tamsin for years,” Pentecost continued. “She’s a friend. I’ve met Nakajima twice-”

 

“Do you believe yourself incapable of forming additional friendships?” Hannibal enquired and Pentecost’s composure finally cracked enough for something to show through that schooled expression.

 

“What? No!-”

 

“Then what’s the issue?” Will interrupted.

 

Pentecost didn’t have an answer. He seemed wrong-footed and probably, Will thought, biting down on a dozen arguments he knew wouldn’t fly.

 

“I would suggest that Dr Lightcap’s example might prove comforting to you.”

 

Will smiled at the corner. “He means D'Onofrio-”

 

“You know about Sergio D'Onofrio but you don’t know anything about how the Pons system works?” Pentecost sounded sceptical.

 

Will shrugged. “The guards gossip and we’re a little short on-”

 

“Environmental enrichment?” Hannibal supplied.

 

“You make us sound like lab rats-”

 

“Currently we are.”

 

They were aware that somewhere in the background Pentecost was becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

 

“Gentlemen.” Pentecost said stiffly and it sounded like a dismissal.

 

He left the hatch on the observation window open when he went.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn’t find Stacker Pentecost’s pre-Jaegar program RAF rank. So I made one up and have probably given him a higher rank than someone his age might be expected to have. However in my defence a) it’s Stacker Pentecost he’s awesome and b) to be the liaison with the Pan Pacific Defence Corp he’d have to be reasonably high ranking in the first place. 
> 
> For reference these are the Mark 1 Jaegars and their pilots according to the Pacific Rim wiki, there's not much information on most of them and for the most part they don't really have a role in the story. I also threw in a few original characters who, presumably, didn't make the cut as a pilot in the canon for whatever reason.
> 
> Brawler Yukon- Lightcap, Sergio D’Onofrio  
> Coyote Tango- Stacker Pentecost-Tamsin Sevier, Gunnar Tunari-Vic Tunari  
> Horizon Brave- Lo Hin Shen-Xichi Po  
> Romeo Blue- Bruce Gage-Trevin Gage   
> Tacit Ronin- Duc Jessop-Kaori Jessop (nee Koyamada)  
> Cherno Alpha- Sasha Kaidonovsky-Aleksis Kaidonovsky  
> Tango Tasmania- pilots not given


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations at the end but this time they're mostly explained in the text.

There are other Rangers after Pentecost. The Gage twins who came to see what the program was built on and left disquiet. The Tunari brothers, bold over-eager children who seemed to see a trip to the cell as a sort of dare-

 

It’s easy to pick pieces off them with words. It’s easy to want to, too easy Will thinks and he wishes he could tie the urge to Hannibal.

 

There’s Koyamada (but not her co-pilot Jessop) who looks at them with something between pity and revulsion. Sometimes she asks questions about the Drift, in soft formal Japanese.

 

And then there’s Sasha Kaidonovsky who doesn’t _see_ them exactly but never choses to cover her eyes.

 

The files had told them she was a resolute wall of a woman. It’s her forthrightness not her firmness that comes as a surprise. She’s probably not the only one that found the Tattle Crime website but she’s the only one who seems interested in questioning them about it directly.

 

Will isn’t sure what to think of that at first. Kaidonovsky is not horrified but she isn’t fascinated either. For the most part she addresses Hannibal in Russian that boarders on blunt. He doesn’t find her dull.

 

The first time she visits them lasts, according to Will’s watch, about twenty minutes. Then she smiles to a guard they can’t see.

 

“He’s Lithuanian.” She states, although Hannibal never said so and would probably swear he didn’t have an accent.

 

Will decides he likes her.

 

-

 

Kaidonovsky came down to talk them again, often enough that it could almost be called habitual. There wasn’t pity on her face when she looked at them as far as Will could see but there was always a small flicker of disgust when she looked at their bare cell. So Will took her company as a sign she disapproved of at least some of her superior’s methods. Just not enough to lose her spot on the Jaegar program for it.

 

-

 

The observation window slid open while the cell was still dark, a neat rectangle of light against the door. There was a person standing it, with the light behind them all Will could make out was a wavering silhouette.

 

It felt like a dream.

 

Will got up, slowly carefully, and made his way towards the door a step at a time. It was a woman’s outline, delicate, her straight hair cut to hug her jaw. He was almost at the door before he could see her features, large eyes held wide and-

 

She smiles. “Hi.”

 

“No,” He says because it’s not possible, because he’s dreaming or hallucinating or the shrieking remains of his mind have finally, _finally_ given up the ghost- “ _No”_

 

She looks pained and Will can’t bear it, can’t stand there and watch when the chances are he’ll have to see her die again. He sinks to the floor and curls against the door.

 

He’s aware of Hannibal moving in the dark but all he can think about is her eyes, large and frightened, all he can see is her _ear_ hacked up in his sink.

 

“Will?” Hannibal’s voice.

 

He’s shaking, hands in his hair and then Hannibal is crouched in front of him, precise clinical touch guiding his hands away from his face.

 

“Will?” Hannibal asks again.

 

“I-” Will starts, swallows, tries again.

 

“I’m hallucinating.” Will admitted. “I- I could see-”

 

Hannibal’s grip tightened around his wrists. “Will, Abigail Hobbes is dead.”

 

And something in Will’s chest squeezes tight around his heart.

 

Because Hannibal is _lying_ -

 

“Will?” He says and there’s a small private smile on his face, something warm between his throat and his heart. It might be pride.

 

“I- I know.” Will managed after a moment. “But I saw- I _thought_ I saw-”

 

Hannibal stroked his hair and Will found it easy to shake.

 

Abigail was _alive_ -

 

He wondered how- He could see parts of it as easily as a swinging pendulum but-

 

_I can show you, later._

 

Will took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded. He reached for Hannibal’s wrist and they rose together.

 

And there, alive and smiling and almost whole was Abigail.

 

Will found he didn’t know what to say. He let Hannibal give her a gracious apology and coax her into conversation as if she was a stranger.

 

In a way she was, she’d built another life, too quickly and thoroughly to have managed it on her own. Audra Urbonytė was older than Abigail had been and held herself taller drew attention where Abigail had deflected it. She was still American but she’d lived in Europe and she’d joined the Army soon after the Kaiju came. She ‘just’ worked in security but she wanted to get enough of an engineering qualification to join the tech teams that would fix the Jaegars.

 

She talked too easily for someone who knew what they were and why they were there. Will felt like he should stop her, warn her, but it was so good to hear her speak even if he didn’t trust himself to reply. Hannibal held up their end of the conversation and Abiga- _Audra_ told him that her father had taught her to hunt but she was better at fishing.

 

She turned towards Will when she said it, false casualness and false distance that didn’t reach her eyes. Will looked down.

 

“Did you ever do that?” She asked her tone much more reasonable than Will’s had been as she almost-echoed his words. “Hunt or fish?”

 

Will swallowed, once, twice and nodded jerkily. “I’m good at fishing.”

 

She left soon after that with the sort of pleasantries that wouldn’t have been out of place at one of Hannibal’s parties. Will shuffled closer to him once she was gone, leaning into him as if he needed support-

 

Hannibal let him come too close. It was a strange feeling, Will couldn’t find anything close to intimacy, no urge to comfort. But apparently his warmth and weight, his smell wasn’t…unpleasant to Hannibal. Will clung to him, legs unsteady and Hannibal felt like a dark, unruffled pool, as indifferent to his presence as always.

 

“That’s not true.” Hannibal murmured and his hand under Will’s arm tugged slightly, guiding Will back towards his bed.

 

Will thought about Abigail and who she’d built herself into without them but it was all too-

 

He couldn’t think clearly. He couldn’t see clearly.

 

“I didn’t intend for you to remain in Chilton’s care.” Hannibal said as though it was an explanation, then more quietly, “I wanted to surprise you.”

 

“Well, I am surprised.” Will admitted.

 

“I know.” Hannibal didn’t sound satisfied.

 

“Do you expect me to be?” Hannibal asked as he helped Will into bed and no of course Will didn’t-

 

For a moment he could see it, the place Hannibal would have carved out for the three of them. They would have gone to Florence, Rome, Paris, Vienna, and in Hannibal’s imagination they looked…happy.

 

“It wouldn’t have lasted.” Will whispered.

 

Hannibal pulled away. He walked back to his own bed leaving Will lost in images of what could have been.

 

He tried to sleep.

 

-

 

The rhythm of it changes. There isn’t just the Drift and forms and idleness anymore. They have people on the other side of the glass.

 

The difference is so small as to be indistinguishable.

 

The difference is so huge it’s like waking up in another world.

 

(And perhaps it’s just the Drift but there’s no contradiction there at all.)

 

Abigail- Audra (the change is easy for one of them) brings them books with soft covers and no wire in the spine. Journals with no staples to hold the pages together.

 

She doesn’t stay for very long.

 

Kaidonovsky- Sasha, does. She brings a chess set made of pieces of laminated paper and they play sending it back and forth in the tray their food arrives through.

 

She’s terrible at chess.

 

But she tells them about the Jaegars, armaments and engines per muscle strand. She tells them about the training, people in engineering and research and repairs that had nothing to do with the Pons system, people they’ll never meet. She tells them news from the base and the world outside.

 

She’s the first person who bothers to actually tell them that they’re somewhere near Hong Kong.

 

After a few months she replaces the chess set with a Go board.

 

She’s better at it, better than Will, who knows the game and then doesn’t in fits and starts.

 

They’re playing when Will asks her, Hannibal is behind him (and isn’t because he’s in Florence, arranging flowers to fall out of a dead woman’s mouth-).

 

“You were a prison warden.”

 

Her smile is wide and her look sharp. Will keeps his eyes on her hands. Sasha’s nails are a red Hannibal thinks is abominable.

 

“You understand Russian?”

 

Hannibal can. Whether Will can or not depends on factors they haven’t quite nailed down yet. He decides to risk it, shrugs.

 

“You Americans think we’re still Stalinists.” She says conversationally, pauses-

 

It stretches so long that Will thinks there must be quite a lot she wants to say.

 

“We don’t keep people like this.” Is what she settles for. ‘Even you, even him’ silent but there in the pressure at the corner of her lips.

 

Will sighs. “I didn’t think we did either.”

 

-

 

According to Will’s watch they’d been out of Baltimore for almost a year and a half when Sasha Kaidonovsky came to see them without the Go board, something that was closer to excitement than nerves in the set of her hands.

 

“I have a Jaegar.” She announced without preamble when Hannibal rose to greet her.

 

“Congratulations.” Hannibal replied blandly.

 

She gave a small shrug, that Will read as ‘ _expected_ ’, and switched to Russian.

 

“We’re to be stationed in Vladivostok.” She stated.

 

They’d known it would happen eventually. Will wondered what she wanted them to say. Hannibal thought it was just common courtesy but Will felt-

 

He couldn’t meet Sasha’s eyes and he couldn’t think of anything to say.

 

It made something stick in Hannibal’s ribs, Will thought it might have been frustration. It was gone in a moment, transformed in to one of the small, charming smiles he’d deployed in Baltimore.

 

“Your language has some interesting turns of phrase. The way you wish each other luck for instance, do you know where it comes from?”

 

Kaidonovsky frowned piecing something together Will couldn’t quite follow.

 

“Hunting.” She replied and Hannibal’s smile widened ever so slightly.

 

“Ни пу́ха, ни пера́.” He intoned and something in his tone made Will think it was joke before the Drift let him catch up-

 

_Neither fur nor feather-_

 

Will blinked and the words sorted themselves out into- _I hope you don’t catch anything_.

 

He blinked again. On the other side of the glass Sasha let out a surprised bark of a laugh. Her smile showed teeth.

 

“К чёрту.” She shot back.

 

_To the devil with you._

 

Hannibal inclined his head and Kaidonovsky left with a spring in her step, as if she’d gotten a gift.

 

-

 

“Why did you do that?” Will asked later when the lights went out.

 

Hannibal didn’t answer.

 

“You don’t like her.”

 

“I don’t dislike her.”

 

Which was true and he didn’t actively _like_ many people. Alana, in a way that to Will felt like barely more than acknowledgement of her existence. Abigail, to a similar degree. His Aunt. His sister-

 

“I would count it as less.” Hannibal murmured.

 

“Who?”

 

 _You. And Mischa_.

 

Will shook his head. Which should have been pointless in the dark but the Drift did strange things.

 

“Why?”

 

Hannibal sighed as though Will was being particularly tiresome. “You wanted her to be happy.”

 

Will turned in his bed until he was facing the wall, took a deep breath and pictured his stream-

 

He didn’t want to think about the implications of what Hannibal had just said.

 

-

 

There are less simulations, less Drifting strapped into the Pons system. There are more files full of people who don’t know what they’re volunteering for.

 

In a way they know all the pilots. In a way they’ve helped to make them Rangers.

 

They still don’t know how the Pons works, what precisely was done to them in the first chaotic weeks, how they got to Hong Kong or what the people they left behind in Baltimore think happened-

 

They know when Tamsin Sevier comes out of Tango Tasmania and kisses Intah Budi. (Will can see it far more clearly than he wants to, the rush from the hunt subsiding and their minds still tangled with violence and each other-)

 

They know when the Mark 1 Jaegars claim their first casualty, a repair technician who collapses suddenly with a brain tumour the size of a golf ball.

 

They know when Tango Tasmania falters in the Celebes Sea and stops, Sevier seizing in the Pons over her dead prey.

 

They know when Pentecost pilots Coyote Tango alone in Tokyo, Nakajima pulled under by pain.

 

Cancer starts eating the Mark 1 Rangers.

 

They’re not sure what that means, except more MRIs, more scans, more blood tests.

 

And then suddenly, inexplicably, they’re being moved half way across the world. Abi- _Audra_ warns them and she doesn’t know why.

 

It sends Will half way to panic, another tiny bit of stability chipped away. He can’t stop himself from wondering why. Are they moving the Jaegar research to another facility? Is Lightcap passing them on like so much equipment to someone else? Have they finally reached the end of their usefulness?

 

It sends him pacing, hands twitching through their cell.

 

Hannibal sighs.

 

“Dievas davė dantis.” Half a saying, he leaves Will to pick up the rest.

 

_God gave teeth-_

 

Will stops.

 

_God will provide bread._

 

He feels Hannibal’s smile when the pieces click in place and Will realises he’s being told to stop worrying about a future he can’t control.

 

“I’m not sure anyone would find that comforting.” Will says, _not if they consider what you’ve done with your teeth-_

 

“That’s not the aspect you find distressing.”

 

Will snorts. “That’s because I know _your_ opinion of God.”

 

They don’t talk about it aloud after that. Eventually Will comes to sit beside Hannibal who threads his fingers idly through Will’s curls.

 

He can’t stop thinking about it so he closes his eyes, breathes and tries to focus on Hannibal’s feelings about it-

 

There is never anything Will would recognise as fear there. Anger that tastes like hot salt. Hatred that feels like it’s ripping through his skin.

 

But it’s tempered with patience and Hannibal’s warped perception of time.

 

It’s like they’ve been there all their lives and no time at all. It feels like they could out wait the walls and walk away whole when the building crumbles around them.

 

And Will knows he should probably feel terrible about this, trying to become more like the Chesapeake Ripper. But it helps-

 

And he should probably be sullied by Hannibal’s hand in his hair-

 

But, like killing Hobbes, it feels good.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both translations from websites about proverbs.
> 
> “Ни пу́ха, ни пера́” is a saying that literally means “neither fur, nor feather” but is always used as “good luck” before anything, such as a test, job interview, and other things you’d use the phrase for.
> 
> The origin of this phrase comes from Russian hunters and is in fact, somewhat sarcastic/ironic. Feathers was slang for “birds” and “fur” meant animals, so the hunters were really told “Hope you don’t get any birds or animals, haha” to which they replied “К чёрту” (k chertu) meaning “to the devil” or rather, “the hell i won’t.”
> 
> Dievas davė dantis, Dievas duos ir duonos.   
> • Translation: God gave teeth, God will provide the bread.  
> • Meaning: Try not to worry so much about the future.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely scriptmedic on tumblr kindly checked over the short medical scene in this chapter and said it was, generally speaking, alright. You can find them here: http://scriptmedic.tumblr.com/ Very nice and very helpful advice on writing more realistic medical scenes.
> 
> I am attempting to steer my tumblr. I am highly unqualified to run a tumblr blog. However I can now be found here: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thedancingwalrus-blog

According to Will’s watch they lost two days in transit. The new Shatterdome-

 

_Which is a ridiculous name-_

 

Was half built and cold. The sort of cold that seeped under bones and deep into joints. It did something to Hannibal that blank walls, isolation and idleness hadn’t managed. For the first few weeks he didn’t speak, at least not aloud.

 

_It makes no difference to you._

 

“It does.” Will murmured and he wondered how Hannibal could be interpreting his feelings if he was reaching that conclusion.

 

_You no longer need words to understand me._

 

Will nodded agreeing but-

 

“That’s not the point. It’s not the same.”

 

_In what way?_

 

Will sighed. “We Drift. Do you think I can’t feel that?”

 

_It doesn’t concern you._

 

“Yes it _does_.”

 

And perhaps he agreed because eventually Hannibal spoke.

 

-

 

The first time they’re in a Jaegar, a real Jaegar, goes like this.

 

There’s commotion on the other side of the glass, raised voices and running feet. Their lights come on abruptly. Will flinches. Hannibal sits up slowly. The observation window jerks open.

 

They don’t know the man’s face but when he speaks they recognise his voice. He monitors the Drift some times.

 

He stops when he sees them, caught on Hannibal’s expressionless face. He swallows a breath.

 

“There’s a Class 3 in the Bering Sea.” He says without introduction which is curious because no one talks to them about Kaiju until after the fact. “Cherno Alpha was deployed five hours ago. We lost contact twelve minutes ago.”

 

He stops, studying them-

 

“What’s that got to do with us?” Will asks.

 

It throws him for a moment. “It’s Sasha Kaidonovsky’s Jaegar.”

 

Hannibal puts his arm out the moment Will takes a step forward, penning him in. The man on the other side of the glass seems to think their silence means they’re waiting for him to speak, rather than talking to each other.

 

“The other Shatterdomes are too far away to send someone in time.” Straightforward but there’s an edge to his tone that makes Will think he’s afraid, not of them but of what might happen in the next few minutes.

 

 

“We’ve got an incomplete Jaegar- no weapons systems, not much armour but he’s mobile and the internals function fine and-” He takes a breath. “You’re Drift compatible.”

 

They look at each other. Will’s eyes catch on Hannibal’s mouth, pressed into a thin line. His left hand finds the scars on Hannibal’s wrist almost instinctively. It takes Will a little too long to realise they’re being asked.

 

He wants to go. No, wants is the wrong word, it implies he had to think about it, had to decide. He likes Sasha and she needs help and that would have already propelled Will out the door if-

 

His hands tighten on Hannibal’s wrist. Will expects him to object but he doesn’t. They are, impossibly, in agreement-

 

“How have you modified the Jaegar?” Hannibal asks, Will interprets the way the tech shifts his weight as confusion-

 

“Your failsafes,” Hannibal clarifies before he can ask. “How do you intend to stop us from taking the machine and leaving once we’re in it?”

 

To his credit he doesn’t pretend to trust them or their morality.

 

“Explosives.” He pauses, bites at his lip. “We’re rigging the whole control deck, arming it. You try to hurt anybody or run-” He trails off.

 

Hannibal looks at Will, as if that might have changed his opinion.

 

Will focuses on the man outside their cell and all he can see is worry aimed out across the ocean. He doesn’t think it’s a test.

 

Will nods, eyes twitching back to the safety of the floor.

 

“We’ll do it.”

 

 -                          

 

It felt surreal stepping out of the cell on their own power. Will kept his eyes down and his hand on Hannibal’s wrist, let Hannibal focus on the guards and the weapons trained around them-

 

There were more people than usual in the corridors techs, researchers, engineers, people who were there for the Kaidonovskys not the spectacle. It occurred to Will that in many ways they’d _built_ this bizarre, close knit community and…they weren’t part of it.

 

It was…strange.

 

Hannibal’s fingers curled up and his nails traced short lines over Will’s skin. Will shifted his grip, found Hannibal’s pulse and _counted_ -

 

Hannibal could steer them. Hannibal could keep track of the guards and their guns. Hannibal could watch the stag’s shadow flicker against the walls-

 

They didn’t have the armour the Rangers wore but someone had managed to find helmets, boots, gloves enough to pilot without…damaging anything.

 

He was having trouble wrapping his head around it. Standing in the bones of a Jaegar control room, tugging the gloves on with shaking hands. The Pons system looked different from the inside of a helmet. Smaller. Toothless-

 

Stepping in to it seemed impossible-

 

“Is it any worse than what Jack asked?”

 

Will shrugged. It was different-

 

“In what way?”

 

Will shrugged again, tried to ignore the explosives, a cobbled together mix of things he could only recognise from the warning stickers, and the technicians still wiring them-

 

“I didn’t know any one Jack asked me to look at. Except you, I suppose.”

 

_And Sasha might not be dead-_

 

Hannibal stepped into his place on the left. Will hesitated a moment before taking his own on the right. The guards stepped back and the techs started to clear out. The Jaegar’s systems kicked in and pieces of metal, like a Kaiju’s nightmare, reached out to clamp around their feet, their forearms, their helmets-

 

“I think it’s going to hurt less.” Will breathed, as if Hannibal was the only other person in the room.

 

“Then Jack?”

 

“Yeah, it’s-” Kaiju or not there wouldn’t be a tableau, just destruction. There was no one to impress or reassure no-

 

“Need to conform to acceptable behaviour?” Hannibal suggested and Will smiled at the ceiling around the thought that-

 

 _The only person I have to be is you_.

 

The guards had thinned and the man who’d taken them from the cells was standing in front of them, worried and awkward.

 

“You’ll be transported to the area we last had a signal.” He said glancing from Hannibal’s steady gaze to Will’s skittering one. “The bomb’s already armed if you try to-”

 

“Yes-” They interrupted and it sounded bored. “We know.”

 

And then they were alone.

 

There was enough time for Will to fidget and decide the Jaegar interface was uncomfortable before the voice came over the speakers-

 

“Initiating neural link in 3, 2, 1-”

 

And the world went white.

 

-

 

It’s different to simulations.

 

The Jaegar’s senses don’t line up the same way but-

 

The arm moves in front of the head without either of them being quite aware of consciously signally it. For a moment they stare. It’s not _theirs_ and yet-

 

It moves so smoothly. Separate. Disconnected. And yet it responds far better than flesh and blood.

 

Voices and worried noise sounds over the speakers and they frown at the hand in front of them.

 

“We’re-”

 

“Adjusting.” They say.

 

They wonder briefly if this is what the pilots normally feel.

 

It’s almost worth the ugliness of the machine.

 

-

 

The world around them is grey, sky and sea distinguished by little more than shades that swirl into each other. Waves rushing up to batter the sky, wind pummelling down to punish the sea.

 

The foam looks like liquid lightning against the Jaegar’s body.

 

They can’t track Sasha but the voices coming over the coms can tell where the Kaiju is. They wade through the grey towards it and think of one of the pictures in their office: a small boat on a storm tossed sea. They can’t see the horizon. They can’t see the Kaiju and then-

 

There’s a streak of blue in the water, bright as blood.

 

They find they can move a little faster.

 

-

 

There’s a flash, phosphorous white against the grey. They head towards it. Around them the sea churns, cobalt and ultramarine. The drops of spray that land in front of them on the Jaegar’s head are tinged turquoise. It makes them wonder how much blood a Kaiju can hold-

 

And then they come across the pieces.

 

There’s a limb, not quite hand or foot, with four digits, slender and surprisingly small. A shard of something that might have been bone and might have been cartilage.

 

Something that looks suspiciously similar to tripe.

 

They move as a shape lurches in the grey. It turns and there is that startling brightness again-

 

It moves like a mountain. And then it staggers, suddenly they can see it clearly.

 

Cherno Alpha is not beautiful in the common sense. It is a blocky, brutalist structure and it is streaked with blue in a way that makes them remember Baltimore. They know that it is a difficult task, beating something to death and that is what Sasha’s Jaegar is indisputably built to do.

 

They consider it. Something like a light or a pendulum flashes briefly across their vision and they can’t remember which side that comes from.

 

But they can see the Kaiju rent apart in brutish hands, battered until it broke.

 

It isn’t _their_ way of doing things but for a brief flickering instant they can see its appeal, its aesthetic.

 

(And that is odd for a reason they can’t precisely place-)

 

Cherno Alpha stumbles.

 

There’s a gash across what would be the sternum, deep and ending in an imbedded claw. The flaring patch at the top, like the manubrium, has been crushed inwards. The damage does not appear to extend to the joints-

 

“Where are the pilots?”

 

“You’ve found Cherno?” The voice from the speakers asks instead of answering them.

 

They try to be patient.

 

“Yes. They’re-”

 

“-damaged. Where are the pilots?”

 

“The centre of the chest, just under the head-piece.”

 

Around where the sternum would be, they do not say.

 

They watch as the Jaegar staggers closer. They are not engineers and they have very little understanding of how the machines work. There are probably thousands of components that could be damaged in such a way that the machine would move erratically.

 

But the pilots are still two of those components.

 

“-please respond.” The voice from the speaker says again.

 

They glance at each other, their decision already made.

 

“Their cockpit’s damaged we think-”

 

“-the pilots are injured. We’re-”

 

“-going to help.”

 

“If either of you remove the Pons system I’ll detonate the bomb.” Is the reply.

 

Several responses come to mind. The one that is most difficult to bite back seems childishly obvious to them-

 

Threats of pain and death are only effective against those that actually _fear_ them.

 

Instead they say, “The Jaegar’s movements are uncontrolled, the cockpit-”

 

“-is breached. How quickly can you-”

 

“-evacuate them? If they are injured-”

 

“-you could lose both pilots waiting for a doctor.”

 

They wait and get no answer.

 

They manoeuver their Jaegar closer to Cherno Alpha, brace the machines against each other-

 

“We’re going.” They say.

 

“You can detonate your explosives and lose us as well as the Kaidonovskys-”

 

“Or allow us to treat them and perhaps lose neither.”

 

“It’s your choice.”

 

Their hands move to their helmets and they pause for a moment unsure. They’ve never removed it themselves before-

 

They take the time to make sure Cherno is still and position one of the half-built arms of their machine into something like a path to Cherno’s cockpit-

 

They tug at the helmets. It makes a noise like an engine protesting against sand. And the world, briefly, goes white again.

 

-

 

They went out into the maelstrom disjointed, half-separate and staggered with the wind. The suddenly frigid air was like a wall and the Jaegars were certainly not designed to be clambered over on foot.

 

It was less than a hundred metres from the control room, across the shoulders and down what passed as an arm to Sasha’s machine. Much less than a hundred metres. The wind, the spray and the cold all made it seem longer and forced them closer together, clinging to and supporting each other over uneven, treacherous footing.

 

They struggled with the steepest part of the arm. Will looked down at the way the water writhed like a furious, living thing and….

 

For a mad moment he wanted to pitch them both into it, escape white walls and tests and a past neither of them could return to. Keep them safe from people like Lightcap and Jack and keep people like Abigail safe from them-

 

Hannibal clung to him tighter.

 

Not that it would make a difference whether they went over in each other’s arms or not. If Will went Hannibal would follow, as if they were tied together. And if Hannibal went then-

 

It scared him how little he had to think about it.

 

They reached the elbow.

 

The path was more sheltered there, snug against Cherno Alpha’s body. They were already wet, the cold had burnt their faces and numbed their fingers. They found the cockpit smashed open to the elements and clambered inside-

 

There are red lights everywhere, it’s claustrophobically close with four people jammed inside and the floor is a mess of wet glass.

 

Sasha’s co-pilot takes the left side which appears undamaged, with whole metal beams latching on to his limbs and cables connecting his outside shoulder to the machine. He’s sagging in his place as though the Jaegar is holding him up, one hand clamped over his side. Between his beard and the way their Pons covers half his face they’re not sure of his expression. Sasha-

 

Shrapnel has sliced through the cables on her side. It cut at her outside arm and leg and it made its way through her armour to open her right side. It’s still there, sticking out, with a few smaller pieces embedded in her thigh.

 

Will can see how it happened, the shrapnel flying through the air back into place over the cockpit.

 

Hannibal sees simple injuries in an unfortunately complex and unsterile situation. They’re still connected to the Pons-

 

“Fuck.” Will murmured as that hit home because neither of them really had the first idea how to disconnect it or what that might do to the pilots or the Jaegar they were all standing in and-

 

“Gloves.” Hannibal snapped making Will blink away the after-images of flying glass to look for the first aid kit.

 

Hannibal didn’t hesitate, of course he didn’t, he hadn’t hesitated when Abigail’s father had slit her throat just calmly walked across the bloody kitchen and held the wound closed. He went up to Sasha, almost limp in the Pons and stuck two fingers under the armour at her neck to find a pulse. It overlayed with Abigail in Will’s mind, how shocked she’d looked and how calm Hannibal had been and-

 

“That’s distracting.” Hannibal stated.

 

“Sorry.” Will murmured.

 

He found the first aid kit, found the gloves.

 

“Who?-” Aleksis Kaidonovsky asked weakly, taking them by surprise.

 

They hadn’t forgotten him exactly, he was just part of Sasha-

 

“Hannibal Lecter. Will Graham.” Will introduced trying not to think about why he’d put Hannibal’s name first. “The only medical assistance for several hundred miles. He’s actually pretty good at this and he doesn’t want to kill her so she’s probably- Stop doing that it makes your face feel like its freezing.”

 

“ _Gloves.”_ Hannibal said again holding out his right hand.

 

Will passed him the gloves.

 

He could feel Hannibal put them on, too tight with a texture that made him want to grind his teeth-

 

_Will._

 

He took a deep breath and let it out hissing between his teeth. Hannibal’s focus had sharpened to a scalpel edge along Sasha’s wounds. Will’s attention wavered for a moment skimming over the blood spatter on the floor and the first line of a poem he’d read years ago-

 

_You fit into me, like a hook in an eye-_

 

Then it settled.

 

He handed a bottle of disinfectant across without bothering to check if Hannibal’s hand was actually there to take it. His fingers hovered over a pre-prepared morphine injection but Hannibal didn’t seem to think that was a good idea.

 

Even with Sasha, her eyes glazed and her face pale, cursing softly at every movement of Hannibal’s hands.

 

“Why not?” Will asked, fingers skimming the syringe through the packet.

 

“Because we don’t know what that will do. To either of them.”

 

There was dirt and glass in Sasha’s wounds, Will could almost feel it, burning, shifting, slicing when he glanced her way. And they didn’t know if the pieces in her stomach had pierced anything important and his mind kept fluttering round half-remembered statistics for the survival rates of abdominal wounds and-

 

“Talk to her.” Hannibal suggested.

 

The Pons was like a hood over her head and the staring lights were easier to look at than eyes. Lipstick made her mouth too red and pain twisted it into strange shapes.

 

Will didn’t know what to say.

 

“I think I’m supposed to keep you awake.” He told her, trying not to think about the texture and give of her muscles through thin gloves-

 

He swallowed, blinked, focused on the red light above her left eye.

 

“Did you kill it?”

 

“да.” She breathed.

 

“What did it look like?”

 

She struggled more with that but Will kept prodding. Kept her talking while Hannibal cleaned and stitched until he’d tied off the last knot and taped the last bandage in place.

 

There weren’t quite enough dressings.

 

 _Now what?_ Will wondered.

 

Hannibal sat back with a sigh that seemed to go through his whole body.

 

“We wait.”

 

-

 

It’s the Russians who pick them up in the end.

 

A squad of noisy helicopters, one to evacuate the Kaidonovsky’s, several for the Jaegars-

 

They’re bundled into one with a large number of armed men who don’t seem to have the slightest idea what to do with them beyond getting them out of the Jaegars and into dry clothes.

 

They sleep for most of the flight.

 

-

 

Vladivostok’s Shatterdome was warm, despite its high ceilings. They were marched in at gun point, hands on the back of their heads. They stopped in an empty hangar, surrounded by even more security, guns, dogs-

 

_They really have no idea what to do with us do they?_

 

It was almost…sweet.

 

Their faces, postures, blurred and the conversation was hard to follow. For Will anyway-

 

Hannibal talked and somehow he got them coffee. Cheap, sour, scalding stuff that felt like a punch in the head. They sat on the floor, facing each other and sipping it carefully. Will kept looking over Hannibal’s shoulder at the dogs-

 

It amused Hannibal. At least that’s what Will thought the feeling was. And it would explain the look Hannibal gave him, the pressure at the corner of his mouth that was almost a smile.

 

Then he looked up, at the men behind Will and there was more Russian which he couldn’t catch more than the odd word for. He caught something like ‘sobaka’ and-

 

One of the guards brought a dog towards them. A large shaggy female who looked like an Alsatian cross with beautiful black fur. She sat a step or so away and the guard stood back.

 

Will looked at the dog, then at Hannibal.

 

Hannibal sipped his coffee and waited.

 

Will stood, slowly, hands up and the guards didn’t move so-

 

“Hey girl,” He whispered. “Hey there pretty girl.”

 

She sniffed his fingers but didn’t lick them. She sat still and straight and he told her she was a good girl as he sat in front of her, scratched her ears and ran his hands over her fur. It felt coarse on her back, soft and thick at her neck.

 

It made something huge and warm grow in the top of his chest, made him feel light enough to float away, made a grin, sudden and uncontrollable spread over his face.

 

He could feel Hannibal studying it, as if it was a distant star. Something like curiosity, something that would never reach awe.

 

“Thank you.” Will murmured.

 

“It’s no trouble.” Hannibal replied.

 

“Mmm. What are you getting out of it?”

 

“Aside from the opportunity to observe you?” Hannibal asked.

 

 _Yes, obviously_.

 

He felt Hannibal smile, glanced over his shoulder and found that he’d appropriated Will’s abandoned coffee. Hannibal raised it like a toast and knocked it back and Will choked on a laugh.

 

-

 

They’re put in an ordinary pilot’s bunker in the end. There’s a deadbolt on the outside and four armed guards and it seems a little pointless when all they want to do is sleep.

 

They move together, exhausted and not-precisely-Drifting. They don’t have the energy to think separately-

 

Which is why they stumble into the bathroom together and into the shower.

 

They’re under the water before Will realises that they’ve never done this before.

 

Hannibal has the water scalding. It’s turned his cheeks pink. And Will- Will isn’t thinking anymore.

 

Which is why he reaches up (and there’s really no distance between them at all) and finds his fingers resting just below Hannibal’s eye.

 

They both stop moving.

 

Hannibal’s frozen, time stopped around him while Will’s mind is going faster than he can ever remember. Their hearts speed up which he’s sure doesn’t make sense unless-

 

Oh.

 

Hannibal watches impassive as Will stumbles through half a dozen emotions, expressions-

 

Hannibal doesn’t move.

 

And Will kisses him.

 

It starts soft but then he’s stepping forward and Hannibal moves back until he’s trapped against the tile, pressed there by Will’s weight. He opens his mouth a fraction and Will presses further. It hadn’t occurred to him before. Such a simple stupidly obvious thing. But now he wants every inch Hannibal surrenders. His whole body feels like it’s singing-

 

When he pulls back he finds he needs air more than he’d thought. He rests his forehead against Hannibal’s, hands tangled in his hair and laughs at himself for not thinking of this before-

 

Hannibal doesn’t feel the same light, giddiness that’s racing through Will but Hannibal’s feelings are never quite the same. He opens his mouth, closes it again.

 

It suddenly occurs to Will that Hannibal isn’t smiling too.

 

“I’d let you.” Hannibal says and-

 

Suddenly they were out of synch. Will stumbled back.

 

“Let-” He echoed and Hannibal sighed.

 

“We’re both tired. I would suggest we get some sleep.”

 

He stepped out of the shower and Will followed, clumsy and staggering as if they were tied together. They dried off, left the jumpsuits on the floor and headed to the bunks. Hannibal took the bottom one and Will hesitated at the ladder until Hannibal caught his wrist and tugged him down.

 

The bed was too small to share. Will lay on top of Hannibal, chest to chest and tucked his head in the curve of Hannibal’s neck. Hannibal wrapped his arms across Will’s back, fingers resting on the scars he’d made.

 

“I’m confused.” Will murmured in his ear.

 

“It’s quite simple.” Hannibal replied.

 

Will thought he was staring at the other bunk.

 

“You mind explaining?”

 

Hannibal’s finger tips skimmed the edge of one antler.

 

“I care for you. I don’t think we should have sex.”

 

_Are those statements related to each other?_

 

“Yes.” Hannibal sighed.

 

“Are you going to tell me why?”

 

“So you can disapprove?”

 

“So I can understand.”

 

For a reason Will didn’t quite follow that made Hannibal think of fireflies.

 

“Must we discuss this?” Hannibal asked, which was wrong in and of itself, Hannibal wanted to talk about _everything_ \- “Is it not enough to say I do not wish to?”

 

Will frowned into the side of Hannibal’s neck. Because it should be-

 

“That’s not…all of it. You’re hiding something from me.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“We were in a Jaegar.” Will replied, suddenly tired and struggling not to yawn. “The Drift…what is it the Rangers say? ‘The Drift was strong’? I can feel your arm going numb underneath me. Those fireflies you were thinking about? You bred snails when you were young to feed their larvae. You’re hiding something. You think I’ll be upset.”

 

_You will be._

 

“I’ll find out sooner or later.” Will stated. “We Drift.”

 

Hannibal closed his eyes. After a while Will sighed against his chest and shifted so the blood could get back into Hannibal’s arm.

 

“OK. It doesn’t have to be now. But I’d rather know because you decided to tell me then because Lightcap decided to test a new piece of equipment.”

 

He almost thought Hannibal hadn’t heard. Then he shifted, caught Will’s hand and brushed his lips against Will’s knuckles.

 

They fell asleep jammed into the bottom bunk and woke aching, limbs numb and full of needles when one of the Russians knocked on the door.

 

-

 

They’re in Vladivostok twenty eight hours.

 

In that time they’re told that they’ll be sent back to Hong Kong and that Sasha is recovering. The Russians lend them books and Hannibal tries to teach Will to read a little Russian from The Master and Margarita.

 

It’s more courtesy than they’ve received since Baltimore.

 

The Russians also seem disinclined to drug them into a stupor or strap them to boards. It causes arguments outside when they land in Hong Kong.

 

They’ve rebuilt the cell.

 

It’s larger, technically three rooms. Conjoined single cells on either side with a bathroom in between. The furniture is still bolted to the floor but there’s more of it, a desk and chair each, bookshelves. Rather than the tiny observation window an entire wall is clear on both their sides of the cell.

 

It looks more like the BSHCI.

 

More like something people are supposed to live in.

 

It should reassure Will that Lightcap’s people bothered to build this before they drove the Jaeger into that storm looking for Kaidonovsky. It means she wants to keep them alive.

 

There are papers on one of the desks when they get in. More personnel files. The next generation of Rangers for the Mark two Jaegars-

 

Hannibal sits on the bed and watches Will sift through them.

 

“What was the poem?” He asks.

 

“I don’t follow.”

 

“In Cherno Alpha. You thought of a poem. What was it?”

 

Will shakes his head. “Atwood. I can’t remember the title.”

 

Hannibal waits. Eventually Will sighs.

 

“You fit into me, like a hook into an eye,”

 

“A fish hook-” Hannibal murmurs.

 

“An open eye.” Will finishes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian-  
> да- Yes
> 
> You fit into me,  
> Like a hook into an eye
> 
> A fish hook  
> An open eye  
> Margret Atwood- I'm not sure what the title of this poem is or if it has one.
> 
> Scriptmedic said that using some kind of pain killer on Sasha would probably have been the more normal thing to do- but we agreed that Hannibal is Hannibal so....


	8. Chapter 8

They found out later that it happened because of a photograph. One of the Russians on the long trip over the Bering Sea had taken out his phone and snapped a picture of them, asleep and propped against each other. He’d sent it to someone else and it had briefly been on a news website, one of the apparently endless articles about brave Rangers.

 

Depending on your point of view the right or the wrong people had seen it.

 

-

 

Will is trying to find a way to talk to Hannibal about what happened in Vladivostok and Hannibal is trying to find a way to avoid the conversation when Jack Crawford bursts into the visiting area flanked by Shatterdome security.

 

He marches up to the glass as big and bold as always. As if he has a perfect right to be here and _they_ are intruding.

 

It’s disorientating. Another intrusive thought-

 

So of course, despite the noise falling from Jack’s mouth, Will thinks it’s a hallucination.

 

He only starts to panic, only starts to pay attention when it slowly bleeds through that Hannibal is hearing something too. Will’s mind is still stuttering over the _fact_ that Jack _can’t_ be here-

 

“Hello Jack.” Hannibal says and Jack’s face hardens.

 

Not a hallucination, Jack is real, Jack is _there_ and the thought makes Will’s hands start to shake because he really, _really_ , doesn’t need Jack to see this.

 

Not when they’ve found a way to balance, to stay alive, that won’t meet Jack’s standards. Not when they’re so tangled together they’re not sure what separation would look like anymore.

 

In Jack’s world people aren’t supposed to be tangled together. In Jack’s world no one should sympathise or compromise with the Chesapeake Ripper.

 

It occurs to Will, on the edge of the barbed words Jack and Hannibal are trading, that he might have been able to Drift with Jack as well. And it would have been just as painful for Will. And it would have been worse for Jack.

 

Will’s hands are shaking. He can’t make them stop.

 

He keeps his arms stiff by his sides instead. Closes his eyes. Breathes.

 

Slowly, like watching the pendulum swing back, he realises he’s angry. It’s in the tightness in his chest, the hot ragged feeling in his veins, larger, deeper than anything Hannibal ever feels.

 

He wonders what would happen if he could throw it out across the gap, what Hannibal would do with real rage-

 

Sounds around him start to seep through and Will opens his eyes to Jack’s snarl, Jack’s finger pointed like an accusation-

 

It takes him a moment to realise it’s directed at Hannibal.

 

“- _you_ have _no right_ to speak for him.”

 

Whatever response Hannibal has planned can only make things worse.

 

“Shut up, Jack.” Will says calmly.

 

He waits long enough for Hannibal to open his mouth before turning and saying, “You too.”

 

He breathes. He scrubs his hands over his eyes. They’re still shaking.

 

“Will?” Jack asks and it sounds like ‘Are you still with me?’ and ‘If there’s a problem you need to tell me- Is there a problem, Will?’ and ‘I need you in the saddle on this one.’

 

It sounds like the smell of fever and shivering on the table in Beverly’s part of the lab.

 

“Why are you here, Jack?” Will asks.

 

“I’m here to help _you_.” Jack replies without missing a beat, it makes Will’s lip pull up, a bitter smile aimed down.

 

“You’re late.”

 

Jack inclines his head and he’s probably thinking it’s acknowledgement but it looks more like he thinks Will’s being stubborn. Like he’s trying to persuade…one of them-

 

“I know.” He says, trying to meet Will’s eyes through the glass. “I thought you were dead. I was _told_ you were both dead-”

 

“Well we’re not.” Will mutters.

 

“I can see that.”

 

Words get difficult. May be because of the way Jack says that, may be because he can see Jack’s guilt and horror and bone-deep need to fix all this. May be because it feels like something has climbed out of his lungs into his throat and jammed itself there.

 

“What do you _want_ , Jack?”

 

Jack glances across at Hannibal and Will refuses to take the hint.

 

“Can we talk in private?” Jack says almost like a request.

 

“No.” Will states.

 

And it’s true. He could ask Hannibal to leave the room, Hannibal probably would. But it wouldn’t be private.

 

“You want him here?”

 

“What we ‘want’ hasn’t really come into the equation for over a year, Jack.”

 

He knows this isn’t the right script, it’s not the one Jack was expecting. Jack’s trying to be patient all the same.

 

“Well it can now.” Jack says and Will shakes his head like he can shake that thought out-

 

“Will?”

 

He glances at Hannibal, catches his eye and tells Jack what they’re both thinking.

 

“You wasted a trip. The FBI doesn’t have any authority in Hong Kong; I guess that’s why they brought us back here-”

 

Jack’s shifting, uncomfortable, disagreeing. “We can get someone down here to liaise with the police-”

 

Will rolls his eyes, pivots away from Hannibal so he’s glaring somewhere at Jack’s shoulder.

 

“And do _what_ , Jack? What’s the best case look like to you?”

 

“We get you out.” Jack replies calmly. “We get you home.”

 

“And I blow my own brains out because I keep waking up in the night feeling everything Lightcap has done to him.” Will states.

 

He jerks his eyes away so he doesn’t have to see Jack’s reaction in full. He runs his hands through his hair, fingernails scraping his scalp and Jack’s talking but-

 

“It’s not going to work, Jack.” Will says over him. “You’re late. We can’t…separate anymore.”

 

And their government doesn’t care what happens to crazy people or criminals. People who don’t matter-

 

And Will doesn’t know a lot of details but Hannibal does. Live cancer-cells injected into prisoner’s arms-

 

Jack’s talking like this is something Hannibal’s done and Will can feel Hannibal wanting to step between them. To underline that Will isn’t Jack’s anymore.

 

_I’m not sure I ever was-_

 

With Jack in front of him, real and breathing, he can’t stop thinking about home. He can’t stop thinking about the BSHCI and the way Jack had _looked at him_ during the trial. They can’t go home, even if they could their old homes aren’t there to go back to-

 

There are too many threads, too many memories and emotions playing out inside him, pulling different ways.

 

It hollows Will out.

 

He can’t-

 

He sits.

 

He curls around his knees.

 

He doesn’t remember what happens after that.

 

-

 

Will came back to himself in bed. Hannibal was sitting by his feet, holding the file he was reading in one hand, the other rubbing gently against Will’s shin.

 

“About forty minutes.” Hannibal told him although Will hadn’t got around to asking.

 

He put the file down on the floor and picked up a plastic cup, water, held it near Will’s mouth.

 

“I wanted to give you a sedative.” He continued as Will drank. “Based on prior experience I imagine you want whiskey, unfortunately it’s harder to procure.”

 

“What happened to Jack?”

 

“He left.” Hannibal stated, face blank and unblinking.

 

Will rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I noticed.”

 

Hannibal put the water down and retrieved the file. It looked horribly like it might be another Hansen.

 

Will sighed. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

 

“You seemed determined that I wouldn’t speak to him.”

 

“Hannibal-”

 

“I asked Lau to remove him.”

 

Will frowned at the ceiling. Lau was security and from what Will could remember-

 

“Lau doesn’t speak English.”

 

“You were distressed.”

 

“That’s not what-” Will began, “You don’t-”

 

Hannibal stared at him and Will gave in to bluntness.

 

“That’s _rude_.”

 

“You were _distressed_.”

 

Will closed his eyes. He almost wanted to protest, to defend Jack. Because Jack was just trying to help-

 

And thinking like that made Hannibal want to open Jack’s throat and pull his vocal chords out of the jagged hole.

 

Will turned over to face the wall, knocking Hannibal’s hand off his leg.

 

“You’ve done worse things to me than Jack ever did.” Will said finally.

 

Hannibal didn’t reply.

 

Whichever room in his memory palace he was in it smelt like whiskey, citrus and honey. Will could almost taste it-

 

“But- You were right. This time.” Will acknowledged. “I couldn’t- Nothing he was planning would have _worked_ because we can’t…step back into our old lives anymore.”

 

He didn’t really expect Hannibal to understand why that was ‘distressing’.

 

Hannibal’s fingers skimmed his shin bone again. Will thought about asking him to stop.

 

“How do you distinguish which emotional responses are your own?” Hannibal asked.

 

His touch was light and delicate and from what Will could feel his face would be blank, perhaps mildly interested. At odds with what was underneath.

 

“When Jack-”

 

“You’re not thinking about Jack.” Will interrupted.

 

He turned over to look at Hannibal. His hand stayed, hovering in the air above Will’s leg.

 

“What do you believe I’m thinking about?” Hannibal wondered his voice even and-

 

Will focused, past the swinging pendulum there was exhaustion and recycled air and scaldingly hot water and-

 

Hannibal rose to go. Will shot forward and grabbed his wrist.

 

He tugged and Hannibal sat down again, stiff and uncomfortable. Will’s thumb found his pulse. He counted in silence until he felt steady.

 

“Vladivostok. Why is this making you think about Vladivostok?”

 

Hannibal didn’t want to talk about it.

 

“Tough.”

 

“Must we?”

 

“Talk? Yeah.”

 

Hannibal sighed. “You find your empathy distressing. In part because you understand some feelings are socially unacceptable. And in part because you can not always distinguish yourself and others.”

 

None of which was a revelation. Hannibal shook his head and made a gesture that seemed to mean Will was missing the point.

 

“Our circumstances have made the latter more difficult.”

 

“Our ‘circumstances’ make everything more difficult.” Will responded.

 

“Yes.” Hannibal agreed.

 

He still didn’t see it, but then Hannibal was trying to be opaque. Will stared at him and let Hannibal see all those small, squirming, uncomfortable feelings in his stomach reflected back. Eventually Hannibal relented.

 

“How often have your decisions been influenced by your disorder?”

 

“Influenced in what sense?”

 

“In the sense that they are primarily based on what you perceive and predict in others rather than what you feel or think yourself.”

 

“Everyone does that sometimes.” Will murmured. “Even you.”

 

He counted out a hundred beats of Hannibal’s heart. It kept his breathing steady and his feelings…not muted but distant. Somewhere he could see them without them ripping him into shreds.

 

“Are you going to say it?”

 

“I’m afraid you’ll think it discourteous.”

 

“You’re never afraid.” Will stated. “And I’m pretty sure it’s not polite, forcing me to pick it out of your brain.”

 

He waited, even though he was reasonably sure Hannibal wouldn’t say anything more.

 

He didn’t.

 

“You think I can’t consent.” Will said, almost blandly.

 

If he kept counting, kept his mind on Hannibal’s steady pulse, then he could keep everything at arms length. Aware of anger and hurt and the raw writhing thing he’d felt as the door closed on him in the BSHCI. The way he’d be aware of unruly dogs shut up in the next room.

 

“Technically,” Hannibal said. “Neither of us can.”

 

“Technically.” Will echoed.

 

He could see pieces of hospital guidelines when he blinked. Phrases like ‘vulnerable groups’ and ‘more than minimal risk’ and ‘dependent or unequal relationship’. It tasted sour.

 

“We are dependent on each other.” Hannibal pointed out softly.

 

And Will didn’t always know which of them their thoughts and feelings came from. And he’d been bending under the weight of other people’s emotions and expectations his whole life.

 

If his feelings were dogs they’d gone from howling in the other room to battering themselves against the side of the crate.

 

Will shook his head, tried to swallow, tried to breath. For some reason Hannibal’s pulse wasn’t helping anymore.

 

“You’ve picked an odd time to suffer from moral qualms.”

 

“I’ve never approved of sexual abuse.”

 

“No.” Will allowed. “You think it’s vulgar. But we’re not really talking about abuse. You’ve used sex to manipulate before-”

 

Will trailed off. He couldn’t remember Hannibal using it for anything else-

 

“Perhaps you should consider that I may be responding to your moral whims rather than my own.”

 

The idea of Hannibal trying to be _considerate_ was so surreal it made him want to laugh.

 

“Perhaps.” Hannibal said. “I didn’t have the opportunity to experience your responses quite so completely before.”

 

_You wouldn’t forgive me for that._

 

Will dropped his wrist.

 

His hands came up to scrub at his face and cover his eyes. His legs bent up around him without him consciously telling them to.

 

Hannibal stood up.

 

Will kept his breathing relatively steady. At least for the time it took Hannibal to walk across to the other room and shut the door between them.

 

Will screwed his eyes shut. And waded out into his stream.

 

-

 

Hannibal doesn’t come back until the lights are out.

 

Will’s lying in bed failing to sleep. He doesn’t hear Hannibal move through the room, but there’s the ghost of a feeling, the floor against bare feet. Then there’s the feeling of someone else, large and close, a disturbance in the air over him. The odd, disjointed perception of his own scent.

 

Will sighs.

 

Hannibal’s hands frame his face, thumbs stroking gently over his ears.

 

“May I?” It’s barely more than a breath.

 

Will shuffles as close to the wall as he can giving Hannibal space to lie down beside him. The bed protests. There isn’t enough space and they end up too close together, sharing the same air.

 

They both feel quieter now. Not calmer but it’s a different kind of misery, one they can share. Like they woke up to find something small carved away leaving them with stitches and a hole inside.

 

Hannibal’s hand finds its way back to the side of Will’s face. It’s strangely soothing.

 

“You don’t get to just decide things for me.” Will whispers. “You don’t get to say I’m not…capable.”

 

Hannibal’s fingers thread through the hair at the base of Will’s head.

 

“Very well. As things stand I think it would be rash. I think you would come to regret it-”

 

“And I’d hate you for it.”

 

“Yes.” Hannibal murmurs.

 

Will turns his head into the pillow. Hannibal’s hand stays, stroking through his hair.

 

“Tell me what you’re feeling.” Will says finally. “Don’t say I already know.”

 

“But you do.”

 

“That doesn’t mean it makes sense.”

 

Hannibal’s hand stills. Will gropes for his arm, finds it and follows it back to Hannibal’s shoulder. As if holding it would stop him from escaping-

 

“I believe I would do anything to keep you close. I understand that is dangerous.”

 

“Is that why you’re here? Now?”

 

He doesn’t answer.

 

Will’s fingers trace the top of his shoulder blade. He thinks about cutting the poem into Hannibal’s arm. Sees Hannibal calm and compliant as Will takes a blade to him again-

 

He’d leave a better mark the second time.

 

“Do you…desire me?” Will asks, hesitant.

 

He feels Hannibal sigh in the movement of his shoulders. The shift of air.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“It’s not something I experience often.”

 

“Desire?”

 

“In the sense you mean it.”

 

Will nods, which is stupid really when Hannibal can’t see it but then his hand’s still in Will’s hair-

 

“You want to sleep here.” Will states.

 

“I’ll leave if that’s what you want.” Hannibal replies.

 

It’s a terrible, impractical idea. There’s not enough space. They’ll barely sleep and they’ll wake stiff.

 

Will turns to face the wall. Hannibal’s arm ends up snug against his chest.

 

They sleep.

 

-

 

Their next visitor was as unannounced as Jack but considerably less dramatic. Hannibal was lying on the bed with one of Audra’s books, his back to the glass. Will was sitting at the desk looking at one of the files. Will got up when he heard the door, Hannibal didn’t. It wasn’t Audra, she never came flanked by guards, and Sasha was still in Russia.

 

For a long horrible moment Will thought it was probably Jack again.

 

Beverly Katz stepped inside. She had her mouth in that same hard line she’d held it in when she’d first come to see Will in the BSHCI. She held her jacket in front of her, folded over her hands. Will couldn’t quite make out whether it was covering a bag or not and-

 

Well he’d already been thinking about her bringing him photos of corpses.

 

She looked straight at them, straight at Will. Hannibal didn’t look up from his book.

 

“Hi.”

 

Will’s eyes skittered away to the floor.

 

“Please tell me you haven’t brought a file for me to look at.”

 

“Uh, no?” She said it like it was a question, a small frown she was thinking that-

 

“The last time- you always had cases.” It didn’t seem like much of an explanation.

 

“I don’t now.” Beverly assured him.

 

She stepped closer, not quite up to the glass. Will managed to focus as far up as her shoulder before looking back down at her feet.

 

“Did Jack send you?”

 

“No.” She shifted her weight, glanced briefly around her side of the glass as if she was looking for a chair. “You know they won’t let him back in here?”

 

“I- No.” Will replied.

 

_You’re welcome._

 

Will rolled his eyes. “Not helpful. No- Not you, _him_.”

 

He realised abruptly just how crazy that sounded. His hands twitched, he curled them into fists and straightened them again a few times as if that might ward off shaking. This would be easier if-

 

“Do you- What do you know about Drifting?” Will asked, giving in to the urge to move, to pace.

 

“I read the Wikipedia page once.” Beverly replied.

 

He could feel her eyes tracking him back and forth across the cell. His face was probably doing….something, possibly a lot of somethings. He wanted Beverly to _know_ but he didn’t want to stumble over putting it into words-

 

“We were used in its development.” Hannibal said blandly. “There are significant side effects.”

 

Beverly’s expression settled on something non-committal and a little doubtful. A cop face, Will thought.

 

“Like what?”

 

Hannibal brought his arm down against the metal of the bed frame with enough force that Will could feel the jolt all the way up to his teeth.

 

It made him stagger, clutch his wrist, swear-

 

“That _hurt!_ ” Will protested.

 

Hannibal ignored him. “Additionally memory loss, dissociation and fugue states.”

 

He’d forgotten for a moment, with everything focused on his surprise and Hannibal’s bright pain that Beverly was there. Watching.

 

He saw shock and turned away from the rest of her processing it, scrubbing his hands through his hair. He didn’t need to be reminded that being able to Drift with Hannibal said things about him. He didn’t need to see her thinking that perhaps they’d been right to lock him up-

 

Hannibal sat up with a sigh and gave Beverly a level look. The motion rather than the image filtered through and Will squeezed his eyes shut as if that might ward it off.

 

“You needn’t worry.” Hannibal said and Will made a doubtful noise.

 

But Hannibal wasn’t _bad_ at judging other people’s emotions. Just accepting that they mattered.

 

Will opened his eyes, breathed, looked from the cell’s floor to its ceiling and tried to feel a little less trapped. He felt Hannibal turn back to his book.

 

“Why are you here?”

 

It was too blunt a way to ask but all she did was sigh.

 

“We let you down.” Beverly observed.

 

Will let his eyes travel around the cell, a slow loop from floor to ceiling and nodded. Beverly didn’t flinch the way Jack would have but then Beverly had never blamed herself for anything Will had done-

 

“Dr Bloom’s still got your dogs.” Beverly told him. “I asked her about them before I came. They’re OK.”

 

“That’s- that’s good.” Will said and it was, he knew it was even if he couldn’t feel it yet.

 

“She doesn’t know you’re alive. Either of you. And the PPDC ordered us to- but _fuck them_ you know? Do you want me to tell her?”

 

Hannibal thought it might be interesting-

 

“No.” Will replied quickly.

 

He wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to scrub his hands through his hair again and again. He wanted to have his hand around Hannibal’s wrist, thumb on his pulse and fingers on his scars. But Hannibal wasn’t going to get up and Will couldn’t cope with crossing the room, underlining just how ‘dependant’ he- _they_ were.

 

Beverly had him fixed in a level, thoughtful look. The tilt of her head and the careful blankness in her face said ‘ _you look like shit’_. It made Will want to protest instinctively, to say he was fine.

 

Hannibal gave him a look that probably meant his feelings were disruptive and idiotic. Will rolled his eyes.

 

“Did anyone tell you how we found you?” Beverly asked and Will shook his head.

 

“Someone took a photo of you two passed out in a Chinook with bits of Ranger gear on. Lounds found it somehow. It was on Tattlecrime for about 2.3 seconds.”

 

“God help us,” Will muttered, “Tell me we aren’t going to end up owing our lives to _Freddy Lounds-_ ”

 

“We will not end up owing our lives to Freddy Lounds.” Hannibal said obligingly.

 

Will rolled his eyes again.

 

“Lounds couldn’t get anything out of the PPDC but,” She shrugged. “Jack did.”

 

“And here you are.” Will observed. “Is it everything you expected?”

 

Her mouth turned down a little at the corners, her lips pulled thin and it said far more than English could.

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

It gets a bit messy after that. Lost and warped by Hannibal’s perception of time bleeding into both their memories.

 

At some point Beverly says ‘You know they’ve got a vacancy in the Kaiju labs. I’m thinking of applying.’

 

Or may be she didn’t and they fill that in later, after she keeps coming back to their cell.

 

At some point Beverly comes almost right up to the glass and gives Hannibal a look like she wants to dunk him in acid. ‘So I’ve met _Audra_.’ She says-

 

They give her the same smile.

 

-

 

Their perception of the last few months was twisted, making it difficult to be sure what happened when. Some of it was obvious, they _couldn’t_ have been there when the Rangers started talking about them. They _couldn’t._ Whatever they remembered.

 

(Hannibal sometimes thinks they knew anyway. Somehow. And sometimes Will can’t see that that doesn’t make sense-)

 

Perhaps it didn’t matter how and when they pieced together what was going on, over on the other side of the glass. May be they did predict it and it wasn’t Hannibal’s perception of time but Will’s tendency to recreate events that left them remembering meetings they couldn’t have attended.

 

They knew the Mark 1 Rangers were dying. They knew most of the recruits trying to be Rangers failed. They knew the PPDC was building Jaegars faster than they were finding competent, compatible people to man them.

 

And the Kaiju kept coming-

 

-

 

This _happened_.

 

They’re sure it did although they can’t say when and they disagree on how-

 

(It wouldn’t be possible outside of the Drift but it doesn’t feel like- The technicians would never have let them- They’d have been pulled out-)

 

They’re not sure how it starts. Perhaps they were thinking about Vladivostok, the pure potent rush from the Jaegar, from exertion, from being so wholly one creature-

 

And then they’re thinking about each other, fingers in each other’s minds, teeth in each other’s souls.

 

They feel-

 

Will is like a live nerve, all bright pain and devastating sensation.

 

A life with the skin peeled back.

 

Hannibal writhes under his attention as though it burns, as though he can lock away this one last thing-

 

(But Will has always been able to tear his secrets out of him-)

 

They don’t feel the same way- They don’t (can’t?) feel the same thing-

 

(And that opens a hundred small, old, hurts in both of them- Because they’re _not normal_ and they learnt it in a thousand painful ways before they learnt to pretend-)

 

It feels like Will can pull unnatural emotion out of Hannibal’s bones and hold the last few things he can’t control like a song bird in his hand. Hannibal can see him crushing it.

 

Will shakes his head. “I don’t know what this means.”

 

It feels something like focus. Like acknowledgement of a well-executed piece of art. Like relief.

 

Whatever’s in Will it feels more like being on fire.

 

“So show me.” Will says and-

 

He cuts downwards. It hurts less than he thinks it should.

 

He feels Will step back as he cuts below one collar bone, then the other. He feels as though his hands should shake-

 

And then he’s cutting back muscle, fat, skin to get to the bone.

 

It’s harder from this angle and it frustrates him (like a splinter or a papercut in a joint) that he can’t do it as well as it _should_ be done-

 

The sternum is a problem. He ends up trying to cut around and under it to get a grip on the ribs.

 

They’re hard to hold. The angle of it all continues to frustrate and they are tougher than he remembers.

 

They break outwards with a crack.

 

It’s easier once it’s started. With the lower ribs out of the way it’s easier to reach those attached to the sternum and break them free.

 

Until his chest is like a dish, a china bowl full of raw meat.

 

He reaches behind the lungs and wraps his fingers around-

 

It is difficult to finish that thought. The symbolism is too obvious, too blunt.

 

He pulls a piece of flesh free, out of it’s moorings, up past the lungs-

 

This is more akin to what Will feels, contradiction. That things are simultaneously simple and difficult. Pain that is also comfort-

 

He cuts it free of arteries and veins (the aortic arch, the pulmonaries, the vena cava-) and holds it out as far as his arm will stretch.

 

He hopes to be understood.

 

(And there is something else in there, something as painful and raw as this wound. They feel everything differently and the world would judge how, what, Hannibal feels as lesser. There is the possibility that Will might too-)

 

Will takes his heart in both hands.

 

For a long time all he does is look. Perhaps he doesn’t understand. Or worse, perhaps he understands perfectly and rejects….this.

 

When Will looks up his eyes settle on Hannibal’s chest and he thinks of Whale Bone Alley and porcelain and the ivory of the antlers that ran through Cassie Boyle.

 

He stares at the hole where the heart should be for the longest time.

 

“I know what you want me to do.” He murmurs, his thumb strokes the atrium, then the ventricle. “Can I make a request?”

 

As though Will doesn’t already know that he can make Hannibal do whatever he likes with a word.

 

“We’re not-” Will falters. “This can’t be real. Not physically. You wouldn’t still be standing there. We’re Drifting. Or dreaming. So-”

 

He pauses. Breathes deeply, inhaling iron.

 

“I don’t want it to taste raw.” Will says and Hannibal-

 

“Think of how you’d cook mine.”

 

Their eyes meet for a moment and then Will closes his.

 

And bites.

 

He eats carefully, delicately and Hannibal is utterly incapable of taking in anything else.

 

“It’s good.” Will says softly after a moment.

 

He finishes it all.

 

-

 

Whether it was the Drift or a dream didn’t change what happened afterwards. Hannibal went to his side of the cell and lay on his bunk with his eyes closed. Cloistered in a cathedral in Florence.

 

Will looked up at one of the cameras.

 

“Can you…ask Beverly to come down when she’s got a minute, please? We- _I_ would like to talk to her.”

 

He wasn’t sure which of them he sounded like. He wasn’t sure if she’d come-

 

The taste of Hannibal’s heart lingered on his tongue like a word he couldn’t quite bring himself to say. He kept thinking that it wasn’t _for_ people like them-

 

He didn’t know what to say to Beverly. The words tripped and blurred when he saw her face (so so concerned-) so he sat down and looked at the way his hands were moving instead.

 

And if they _knew_ then this is the most manipulative thing he ever did.

 

And if they didn’t then it might be the most desperate.

 

“He’s not supposed to feel like this.” Will whispered. “He’s not- people like him- they’re not supposed to _be able to_.”

 

Beverly’s face did something painful. There was helplessness in the way she held her hands, anger played around the corners of her mouth.

 

Will clenched his hands into tight fists and dropped his head.

 

He’s aware that he looks like he’s breaking. That Beverly looks like she’s teetering on the edge of something irreversible-

 

She asked if he was OK.

 

Will still didn’t know if the way he met her eye, the way he tried and failed to smile, was the most calculating thing they’d done.

 

Especially to a friend.

 

-

 

In the end they ‘escaped’ for much the same reasons they’d been used in the first place. Because the situation was desperate-

 

Because the Kaiju kept coming and Sevier was terminal and Nakajima’s lymphoma had metastasised. D’Onofrio had just got a diagnosis. One of the Hansen’s was in the middle of chemotherapy-

 

There weren’t enough Rangers to man their only successful defence.

 

Because _lives_ were at stake- (other people’s lives, more valuable lives-)

 

Because they’d proved that they _could_ pilot a Jaegar.

 

And if the Kaiju kept coming than sooner or later the situation would be desperate enough for them to be deployed again.

 

They escaped because there were people on the other side of the glass who knew what they could do with blades and bullets and fishing wire. And could imagine what they might be capable of in a Jaegar.

 

-

 

They couldn’t possibly have been there for the debates and planning sessions that _must_ have happened. They know that.

 

But they remember parts of it anyway.

 

They remember Pentecost’s stern sober expression. They think he’d always been against Lightcap’s use of them. He’s a principled man after all. He doesn’t believe humans are commodities.

 

He would rather have justice, the sort that would see them in one of Chilton’s cages. But he prefers the prospect of them free and the hope they will do no harm to the idea of them in a Jaegar’s cockpit.

 

Sasha disagrees but then Sasha is more willing to see them as they are. She knows that cutting them loose signs somebody’s death warrant. She wouldn’t see them free.

 

But there’s the problem of pilots. And Aleksis beside her surrounded by a heavy sort of obligation to the monsters that wouldn’t let her die.

 

They remember Audra’s face as Beverly dredges up a past she’d gutted and drowned.

 

And Stacker Pentecost turning that severe expression on her as he demanded to know what they were to Audra anyway.

 

She says (they’re _sure_ she says-) that Will killed her father and protected her from the FBI, that Hannibal cut off her ear and helped her hide a body.

 

That they both saved her life.

 

Somewhere in the whirl of conspiracy Beverly keeps making the case that Will is _innocent_. And for some reason that makes a difference.

 

The Rangers, the technicians, the scientists, the people of the Shatterdome decide to let them loose and grasp for whatever salves they can find for their conscious. (But _one of them_ is innocent. But it’s _just not right_. But they _probably_ won’t kill anyone if they’re free-)

 

And underneath it all is the fear that if they let them in a Jaegar, angry and abused and not entirely under control, they’ll have created something as fierce as a Kaiju and harder to stop.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Abigail arranged it, or much of it. That wasn’t something they ‘remembered’ but something that became obvious in retrospect. It was in the details , the things she’d thought of-

 

The passports and personas that had been built up for them.

 

It was what Hannibal would have done.

 

-

 

When Sasha comes with a Go board there’s something different to the times before Vladivostok. There’s a tension written over her they hadn’t seen before.

 

“Did you come all this way for us?” Will asks.

 

“No.” She says and doesn’t elaborate.

 

She puts the Go board in their tray, makes her move and slides it across.

 

“Your friend from the FBI thinks you’re innocent.” She says the last word as though she sees an irony there.

 

“I’ve killed one person.” Will replies as he slides his counter across the board. “He’d murdered eight girls and had a knife against his daughter’s throat. I shot him. Nine times.”

 

Sasha smiles at him. They both know that isn’t quite the point.

 

“Do you think it is a problem?” Sasha wonders, not quite changing the subject. “When they look at him and see a devil and they look at you and see an angel?”

 

She doesn’t mention the Drift but it’s in the knowing curve to her lips, the tilt of her head, the way she holds her fingers. That they can’t be so very different and Drift so well.

 

Will shrugs. “What do you think?”

 

Sasha sighs.

 

“Любо́вь зла́,” She murmurs.

 

Love is cruel-

 

“полю́бишь и козла́.” Will finishes, instinctively and Sasha smiles again.

 

They think she might smile at Kaiju that way.

 

“Keep the board.” She tells him.

 

When Will lifts it out of the tray it feels too heavy.

 

They find two sets of keys and two straight razors, sharp as surgical scalpels, tucked in between the cardboard of the game.

 

-

 

The last time they saw Abigail through glass her posture radiated the viciousness and violence Hannibal had always suspected she held. Her jaw was too tight, too tense. She breathed out as if she was trying to throw the air away.

 

“Did I ever tell you how I got into the PPDC?” She asked.

 

It wasn’t the sort of conversation they had through the glass.

 

“You didn’t.” They said softly.

 

Abigail sighed. “My Dad died. Suddenly. My Mum had already passed away and I didn’t have anyone else so-”

 

Will closed his eyes and for a moment he could see a house, modern and full of glass perched on a cliff top. He could see her sitting at a harpsicord steadily learning to play. He could see her face the first time she saw them both on the news-

 

“There was money,” Abigail continued. “But a lot of it was wrapped up in ways I didn’t understand and there were all kinds of legal problems, all kinds of people he owed.”

 

She paused and it was Hannibal she looked towards, not Will.

 

“I guess at the time it seemed like hunting was the only thing I’d been good at and going hunting with my Dad was the last time I could remember being happy.” She gave the ground a small rueful smile. “Kaiju are just bigger game.”

 

“You can’t eat them.” Will murmured but that wasn’t-

 

“My Dad used to say you should use every part of an animal you kill. Honour it.” She shook her head. “May be some things don’t deserve to be honoured.”

 

(They wonder how many people from her class didn’t make it to the end and what became of the bodies-)

 

“Did Ranger Kaidonovsky come to see you?” She asked suddenly and if they hadn’t known before then perhaps this is when they found out-

 

“Yes,” Hannibal replied. “Tell me, is she staying in Hong Kong?”

 

“They left a few hours ago.”

 

Hannibal smiled at her, inclined his head. “If you have the opportunity please tell her that we will miss her games.”

 

-

 

They Drift so easily, the last time and Will is afraid of the way it isn’t frightening.

 

He wonders what Hannibal thinks they’ll do, out there in the world.

 

He see’s the house Hannibal had bought on the cliff. Abigail playing the harpsicord. Hannibal and Will in the kitchen making breakfast together. They’re smiling.

 

The simplicity of Hannibal’s old fantasy makes it sharper-

 

“You really think _we_ could have something like that?” Will wonders and he doesn’t like the way his hurt leaks in to the Drift.

 

He doesn’t like that simple pleasures seem so out of reach.

 

“Yes.” Hannibal says and he is so, so, sure.

 

“It wouldn’t work.” Will murmurs but Hannibal’s conviction is shaking his doubt. “You- I slept in my living room. With seven dogs. You won’t be able to live with me. We’ll fight-”

 

‘You’ll hurt me’, ‘You’ll kill me’ plays soundlessly through their minds.

 

“I won’t.” Hannibal states, as if it’s completely unthinkable, as if he hadn’t watched while Will’s brain caught fire.

 

“You don’t know that.” Will whispers.

 

“I do.” He says. “Sena meilė nerūdyja.”

 

Old love doesn’t rust.

 

Will runs out of words.

 

He swallows. Once. Twice.

 

“You’re the most optimistic person I know.”

 

He feels Hannibal’s smile.

 

They don’t even know how they’d get off the Shatterdome, let alone out of Hong Kong. But Hannibal is so very sure they can.

 

“OK.” Will takes a deep breath. “Shall we?”

 

They unlock their arms as they Drift but they wait until the technicians are behind them removing the Pons to strike.

 

They twist outwards, and their blades move perfectly in time.

 

-

 

They opened the door that led away from the cells and stepped out into a grey, fluorescent lit corridor that was much the same as every other part of the Shatterdome.

 

Beverly was waiting for them. Her expression made the blood feel like lye on Will’s skin. He couldn’t bring himself to be sorry.

 

“We’ve got to get moving the-”

 

The Kaiju alarm blared into life, cutting off whatever Beverly might have said.

 

They wondered who had set it off and how-

 

But Beverly was already jogging down the corridor. They followed.

 

-

 

The lifts to the landing platform should have been guarded but they weren’t. There should have been at least a few security people on the Shatterdome’s surface.

 

But there weren’t.

 

It’s the first time in a long time either of them have seen sunlight and however discordant it is the sun rising and the Hong Kong skyline in the distance will find a place in their memory palace-

 

There was a lone helicopter in the landing area, its blades spinning, its pilot at the helm-

 

She didn’t move when they approached.

 

It seemed…strange- dissonant, that they knew they hadn’t caused this but still felt like they had. It seemed strange to be leaving Hong Kong at all.

 

They got into the helicopter. Beverly sat on one side. Hannibal went to the front and traded a few brief pieces of Russian with the pilot. Will investigated the black duffel bag that had been left in the middle, trying to ignore the feeling of Beverly’s eyes crawling over him.

 

It’s a useful bag. There are two changes of clothes, the right size. There are six passports with three different photos in them. There are driving licenses to match, the keys to an absent car and a handgun.

 

He wishes Beverly wasn’t watching-

 

Will shook his head. He could feel Hannibal moving back towards him-

 

He reached without looking up and found the scars he’d left on Hannibal’s wrist. Will closed his eyes.

 

“I feel,” He said, slowly, testing the words. “As if this isn’t real.”

 

The helicopter was so loud Will was sure no one could hear him. But with Hannibal that wouldn’t matter.

 

Hannibal sat beside him. Will’s fingers ran down Hannibal’s arm past the scars to his wrist. Their fingers curled together, the blood sticking and drying between their palms.

 

-

 

The helicopter heads towards Macau. They get changed in the air, wiping the blood on the inside of the jumpsuits until they’re clean enough to take the towels and wipes from the bag without leaving blood everywhere.

 

Beverly’s eyes catch on the antlers across Will’s back. She’ll ask later and he doesn’t know what to say. Everything true also sounds insane-

 

They pocket the passports and driving licenses that match their faces. Hannibal gives Beverly hers. Will takes the keys. Hannibal takes the handgun.

 

They hope that if it comes to it Will’s training has filtered through and his shaking hands have not.

 

The helicopter lands in a car park outside Macau and while the area is far too heavily populated for it to be empty the early hour and location make it quiet.

 

They find the car at the back. There’s another, larger, bag on the back seat and a Satnav on the dash. The only location in it is Macau airport.

 

“Are there-” Will begins.

 

“Three tickets for today’s flight to Kuala Lumpur.” Hannibal replies, he puts the gun under the seats and leaves it there.

 

There are also maps and three new phones. Beverly glances between them while Hannibal tries to get an internet connection. She looks like she’s questioning everything from Will’s driving ability to her own sanity.

 

Will sets their destination and starts the car.

 

-

 

There were three bags in the back of the car and the kind of handbag that Beverly might have actually considered buying, which helped them blend in she supposed. They sat together in the airport; Hannibal spent most of the time messing with his phone-

 

You probably ended up with a lot of emails to catch up on, being dead for a while.

 

Will closed his eyes next to her and did a good impression of falling asleep. Her eyes kept going down to the brown smears under his finger nails.

 

She kept expecting the police to show up but they got on the flight ok and they landed in Kuala Lumpur without incident.

 

And by that point they all looked tired and ragged enough to be normal American tourists that had just got off the flight from New York.

 

Will nudged her in the arm. “Hannibal got us a hotel.”

 

They got separate taxis and arrived at a huge glittering building. Beverly tried not to think about how much it cost-

 

She was apparently sharing a twin room with Will. Hannibal was in a single room further down the hall-

 

Will shut the door.

 

“You’re thinking about the people who plugged us into the Drift this morning.” Will said. “You’re wondering if everything you said about me is wrong. You’re wondering if I’ve changed-”

 

He trailed off long enough to shake his head and looked up as far as her ear.

 

“They kept us isolated for the first few months.” He said finally. “I- I scratched all the skin off my arms and didn’t even notice. They never told us what they were doing or why. We’d just get strapped to a board and wheeled out and spend the journey guessing if we were going to an equipment room or an operating theatre. I’m….not going to feel sorry for them. I’m not going to _be_ sorry.”

 

His hands were shaking and his eyes tore their way down to the floor.

 

He looked almost as lost as he did in Delaware before-

 

Well everything really.

 

Beverly sighed. “OK. Let’s get some sleep.”

 

-

 

Will had nightmares.

 

People always seemed to scream through them in the movies but Will didn’t scream. He woke her up with his feet kicking a quick desperate tattoo against the mattress. He was breathing hard and he’d thrown the covers across the room.

 

Beverly turned the light on and sat up. It didn’t wake Will.

 

She got up and thought about shaking him awake but he was thrashing and God alone knew how he’d react-

 

There was a soft knock on the door. It made her jump.

 

Beverly edged her way slowly to the door, thought for a moment about leaving it locked (but what the hell would they do then?) and opened it. She already knew who it was.

 

Hannibal’s face was as blank as a mask. But he moved quickly. He was across the room and beside Will’s bed in about the time it had taken for Beverly to step out of his way.

 

His hands went to Will’s shoulders, gentle and firm. He spoke in a low, hushed tone, soothing noises and words Beverly couldn’t understand.

 

Will’s eyes sprung open. He made a noise like he was drowning and buried himself against Hannibal’s chest.

 

Beverly shut the door.

 

She moved cautiously across the room, back towards her bed and turned off the light, trying not to look, trying not to think too much-

 

(She was going to be a fugitive for the rest of her life- She couldn’t go home again- Without her they couldn’t have killed those people- But the PPCD was _wrong-_ But who the hell knew what they might do to _her_ now they were out-)

 

She could hear Hannibal’s voice, steady and calming in the dark, and Will breathing as though something in his chest had broken.

 

“Viskas gerai, mylimasis. Tai tik sapnas. Aš čia.”

 

Beverly took a deep breath, closed her eyes. And tried to fall asleep.

 

-

 

Hannibal was still there when she woke up, sitting on the edge of Will’s bed with his head in his hands. The way Will used to sit sometimes, when it had hurt really bad.

 

She could hear the shower going.

 

Beverly sat up. She swung her legs to the floor and edged herself round to sit at the side of the bed. Hannibal didn’t move.

 

“Morning?” Beverly tried.

 

He turned, his face looked…flat and he had bags under his eyes as though he hadn’t slept for weeks.

 

“Good morning Miss Katz.”

 

They stared at each other a little bit too long.

 

“This happens a lot.” Beverly guessed.

 

Hannibal’s eyes drifted over to the covers Will had kicked across the floor.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why didn’t you get a room with him then?” She figured it would be to stop her having second thoughts and leaving in the night-

 

“The penalty for homosexuality in Malaysia is up to twenty years in prison.”

 

“Oh. Right.”

 

Beverly paused; the shower was still going even though Will must have been in there for an age. May be the PPDC hadn’t given them hot water? She hadn’t thought to ask. Hannibal was still staring at the blankets with a focus that wasn’t….normal.

 

“Can I go?” Beverly asked and Hannibal’s gaze swung back to her.

 

“That is not a particularly sensible idea Miss Katz.”

 

There was another pause, just long enough for Beverly to think that they were going to _get rid of her_ , then Hannibal blinked and-

 

“Perhaps I should clarify: what preparations have you made? Do you have sufficient documentation? Funds? Do you know where you intend to settle?”

 

She didn’t have a fucking clue. And apparently that was obvious. Fuck.

 

“I would suggest that you stay with us for a short while. Until you find your feet.”

 

It sounded like a terrible idea.

 

“You two feeling guilty?” She asked more to see how he’d respond than anything else.

 

He blinked once. “No.”

 

Right.

 

“What happens if I get up and leave?”

 

“Then you will likely be arrested within a week. Which would in turn make our capture more likely.” He tilted his head to one side and looked her in the eye the way Will never did. “I’d suggest that you would not find the Malaysian police very accommodating.”

 

It was too early in the morning to deal with…anything.

 

The shower stopped. Will came out wrapped in a towel and talking in….something, may be Russian, as though he was in the middle of a conversation. She kept staring at the scars, huge and shiny and red, across his shoulders.

 

Hannibal cleared his throat and Will turned towards them. He gave her a slightly stunned look and his body language changed completely, drawn in and awkward like the man she remembered. Beverly wondered if he’d forgotten she was there.

 

“Additionally you were speaking Lithuanian, not English.” Hannibal observed.

 

Will didn’t say anything but Hannibal paused as though he had before saying “Of course.”

 

“You mind explaining what’s happening?” Beverly asked.

 

This time Will didn’t flinch. “We think we should probably fly out as soon as we can. Head somewhere quieter. We were thinking New Zealand.”

 

Beverly had never been- There were probably a hundred reasons why it was a terrible idea.

 

“Sure.” She said. “Why not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian-  
> Любо́вь зла́ полю́бишь и козла́- Literally 'Love is so cruel that you could even fall in love with a goat.' Goat is apparently as a reference to a no-good man.
> 
> Lithuanian-  
> Sena meilė nerūdyja- 'An old love doesn't rust'  
> Viskas gerai, mylimasis. 'It's alright, beloved.'  
> Tai tik sapnas.- 'It's a dream.'  
> Aš čia- 'I'm here.'  
> Mylimasis- 'My beloved' endearment, rather old fashioned. 
> 
> Thanks again to cosmolights for the Lithuanian translations


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a large chunk of Lithuanian dialogue towards the end, don't worry translations in the notes.

The house Hannibal finds is on the southern island. It’s south of Dunedin and there isn’t anyone else for miles.

 

From the patio they can see the sea and there’s a garden big enough for dogs.

 

Will doesn’t ask how much it cost or how Hannibal managed to buy it and move them in so quickly. He knows he could find out if he really wanted to.

 

It’s a bright house, large windows in every room. There’s no basement and no deep freeze, at least not yet.

 

Space feels strange. The wind and sun feel strange. He stands on the patio for the longest time, eyes closed, feet bare on the paving stones, just drinking it in.

 

It’s glorious and it’s _necessary._

 

He walks down to the shore and along it. Over cliffs and through scrub with no discrimination.

 

He can still feel Hannibal even at a distance, quiet and subdued, like he’s following silent a few paces behind.

 

It takes Will a long time to find out that Hannibal never follows him out on his walks.

 

-

 

Beverly didn’t really notice it the first couple of days, exhausted and jet lagged and not-really-sleeping but-

 

They’d been there a week before it sunk in that she hadn’t really seen Will.

 

He didn’t seem to have slept in the blue room that was supposed to be his. But she wasn’t sure if that meant anything, may be he was sleeping in Hannibal’s room. And she _really_ didn’t want to poke around in there.

 

She started paying more attention to the fridge instead, to the little containers of…food, yeah it was food, despite the twiddly bits. Sometimes they had instructions on them for re-heating which, presumably, Hannibal wouldn’t need.

 

And Beverly definitely wasn’t eating them-

 

She didn’t exactly want to ask doctor-cannibalistic-serial-killer but-

 

She managed to sneak up on him in the living room, staring out of the French windows into the garden and down towards the sea. He looked like he was on his first cup of coffee which was probably a good thing for Beverly.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Good morning Miss Katz.”

 

His voice didn’t sound right but she didn’t know him anywhere near well enough to interpret why. Will would have been able to tell…..hell would have been able to tell from a file and photos of bodies-

 

She followed his gaze out towards the tree line.

 

“Where’s Will?”

 

“Out.”

 

“Doing what?”

 

“Walking.”

 

Right. Clearly getting Hannibal Lecter to talk was more complicated then she’d been led to believe.

 

She thought about walking down towards the shore and looking herself. It looked rocky and steep. She wondered how long Will was spending outside. If he was coming back to sleep at night at all or-

 

She thought about what Will had said in Malaysia. Asking if either of them were OK seemed trite.

 

“Would you know if he was hurt?” Beverly asked instead. “Like if he fell down a slope or twisted his ankle or something?”

 

Hannibal turned towards her, unblinking and staring straight into her eyes. It was as weird as Will never making eye contact-

 

“I believe so.”

 

“Right.” Beverly sighed. “OK.”

 

She left him to his coffee and his view of the sea.

 

-

 

The weather’s fine, the sun’s just starting to really show. He’s sitting up on the buff watching the waves and he figures if doesn’t do it now he’ll probably lose his nerve again.

 

He gets out his phone. There’s a single number in the contact list, just labelled ‘A’. He dials and waits.

 

It rings for a long time and when he gets an answer it’s mostly a muffled noise.

 

Will swallows. “Hi.”

 

“You know what time it is in Hong Kong?” Abigail asks, bleary and tired, if he closes his eyes he can see her messy hair and the bags under her eyes.

 

It makes him smile. “Uh no. Sorry.”

 

There’s a beat of silence.

 

“Are you-” Abigail begins.

 

“Did you-” Will asks.

 

They stop.

 

“You first.” Will says.

 

Abigail pauses, like she’s thought better of whatever she was going to say.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

“I-” It shouldn’t be difficult to answer.

 

“Good.” Will says finally, it feels strange like the word shouldn’t fit. “We’re- we’re good. Thank you. Did you get into trouble?”

 

Abigail makes a small breathy ‘ha’ sound and Will decides that’s a no.

 

“Does he have your number too?” Will wonders without being entirely sure why.

 

“No. I didn’t want to talk to him.”

 

“Ever?”

 

“I haven’t decided yet.”

 

Will nodded, it was…understandable. By normal standards even considering a conversation was generous. He knew that. And yet-

 

“I’m sorry I ran away.” Abigail says suddenly. “When we went to the cabin. I’m sorry.”

 

“I…don’t remember a lot of it.” Will admitted. “But I don’t think I…gave you a lot of reasons to feel safe.”

 

“If I hadn’t though-” She trails off and there are a lot of things it would probably be healthy to talk about stuck in the silence.

 

“Time doesn’t go backwards.” Will says finally. “Broken teacups don’t just come back together.”

 

To Will’s surprise she laughs.

 

“God, he really _loves_ that metaphor doesn’t he?”

 

It tugged a smile out of Will. “Yeah. Yeah he does.”

 

They don’t say anything for a while. Will watches the way the light plays over the clouds and the rolling water. He imagines Abigail only has a concreate ceiling to stare at.

 

“Did you send Freddie Lounds that photo?” He asked.

 

“I told her where to find it.” Abigail replied. “I knew I couldn’t have done…this on my own.”

 

“And you couldn’t send it straight to Jack.”

 

“No.”

 

Will nods. There’s pink in the clouds and gold in the water and now that he thinks about it he’s a little hungry. He should probably go back to the house for breakfast-

 

“Thank you Abigail.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

-

 

Beverly caught him at five in the goddamn morning, not long after sunrise. She only managed it because he’d forgotten his keys or something, she heard him forcing the patio doors open. He looked caught too, when she came into the kitchen, frozen with his hand in the fridge like it wasn’t his house-

 

“Hi.” He said.

 

“Have you been sleeping rough?”

 

He blinked at her shoulder.

 

“Good morning to you to.”

 

“I’m serious!”

 

“Are you going to tell Hannibal?”

 

Beverly’s mouth clicked closed.

 

“No.”

 

Will turned back to the fridge.

 

“I don’t remember.” He admitted and Beverly hoped that meant he’d been sleeping on the couch and sneaking out before anyone else got up.

 

Will set the oven temperature and went across to the dining table. Beverly followed him.

 

“Are you guys fighting?”

 

“What? _No_.”

 

He sounded pretty sure about that but he also sounded like he wanted to get rid of her. Beverly folded her arms and resisted the urge to plant herself in Will’s way, to pen him in.

 

“What’s he done?”

 

It could be argued that Hannibal had done rather a lot.

 

“Nothing recently.” Will said. Beverly didn’t seem impressed.

 

“You want me to hit him?” She offered, she looked serious about it.

 

“No.” Will told her firmly because that really wasn’t a good idea. “Why do you want to?”

 

“You actually need to ask?”

 

He frowned somewhere in the vicinity of her chin, pulled out one of the dining chairs and sat down. Beverly sat opposite. She fidgeted a little trying to find something to do with her hands. Will fell into a relaxed, confident posture, face bland, hands clasped on the table between them. It looked….wrong.

 

“He’s an asshole, ok?” Beverly said with a huff. “I know you’re joined at the brain or something now but seriously he’s _an asshole_.”

 

The corner of Will’s lip twitched. “Yeah, I know that.”

 

“And he’s hurt you before-”

 

The smile vanished.

 

“He can’t really have me committed again and I don’t have encephalitis anymore.”

 

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

 

Will frowned at her hands then at something in her hair.

 

“You mean the antlers. I asked for that.”

 

“ _Really_?”

 

Will nodded, shrugged-

 

“Sometimes when we came out of the Drift we couldn’t tell…who was who.” He shrugged again. “He’s got scars as well you know.”

 

“From you?”

 

“From me.” Will confirmed.

 

She looked like she couldn’t count how many ways that was wrong. Everything from the line of her mouth to the angle of her eyebrows was broadcasting just how fucked up it- _they_ were. Will pressed his palms into his eyes.

 

“Don’t say it.” Will pleaded. “He’s not- He’s not. Don’t ask.”

 

“OK, I won’t.” Beverly said.

 

Will took his hands down. She still looked serious.

 

“You going to tell me why you’re fighting?”

 

“We’re not fighting.” Will protested.

 

Beverly gave him a look, the kind people gave to puppies that seemed like they might start chewing the furniture.

 

Will didn’t say anything. Beverly didn’t let up on her furniture-chewer look.

 

“We’re not.”

 

“Right.” Beverly stated as if she meant the opposite.

 

“Why do you think we’re fighting?”

 

“Because one,” She began ticking it off on her fingers. “We’ve been here almost two weeks and I haven’t seen you at all. Two, you’re sneaking in to eat at five in the morning. Three, your face. Four, _his_ face-”

 

“We’re not-” Will started but it sounded weak.

 

“You’re avoiding each other.” She stopped, made a face as if she’d tasted something bitter. “Why am I helping? I should be telling you to run-”

 

Will caught her hand and squeezed.

 

“You’re helping because you’re my friend.” He said softly. “So you’re telling me what I need to hear not what I need to do to look normal.”

 

Her eyebrows went up. There was something worried in the twist of her mouth.

 

“It’s not about ‘normal’,” Beverly replied. “It’s about safe.”

 

Will let go of her hand.

 

“Everything’s about ‘normal’. If…If he’d drugged you and forced a tube down your throat and you’d hacked up an ear in the morning, you wouldn’t have ended up in Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Neither would Jack, or Alana. Or Hannibal if he hadn’t had a freezer full of people-”

 

“Are you sure about that?”

 

Will nodded. When he glanced up at Beverly she looked like she wanted to argue. ‘ _But there was evidence_ ’ in the way she held her head and ‘ _it wouldn’t make a difference_ ’ in the way she frowned. But she didn’t say anything.

 

“You know even if he wasn’t a crazy fucking cannibal I should be telling you to run.” Beverly said earnestly. “He’s an _asshole_.”

 

It almost made Will chuckle and his smile seemed to want to stick around whether he wanted it to or not.

 

“Yeah. He is.”

 

“I think I’m supposed to tell you how you can do better.” Beverly said.

 

‘Better’ than someone who understood him perfectly and instinctively. ‘Better’ than someone who wanted everything he was, not just the acceptable pieces-

 

“He’s got two doctorates, more money then I want to think about, a hundred ways to make sure the FBI and the PPDC don’t catch us and he cooks.” Will pointed out. “Most people would say I’d married up.”

 

Beverly kicked him.

 

-

 

They don’t really talk but they stand in the same room for the first time in-

 

It feels to Hannibal as though it was an awfully long time and it feels to Will as if it was a moment.

 

They trudge awkwardly through the day, never really talking or touching, but they don’t spend more than a few minutes at a time out of each other’s sight. There’s something cold coming from Hannibal, discomforting. But Will doesn’t know what it is and he’s not sure Hannibal does either.

 

It soaks the silence.

 

When it seems late enough Will heads to his room. The walls are an ocean blue and there’s a copy of the picture Hannibal had had in his office, the boat out at sea. Will’s things, mostly clothes Abigail had packed in his bag, had been put neatly away.

 

Will doesn’t remember doing it; in fact he’s not sure he’s been in the room before.

 

He found boxers and a t-shirt in one of the drawers, changed-

 

He turned the main light off but left the lamp beside his bed on. There was something….odd on Hannibal’s side, a different sort of discomfort. It feels a little like stepping back from a crime scene, blinking and seeing suffering again over the beauty of it.

 

Will lies down under the covers and waits.

 

Eventually the discordant feeling shifts into something determined.

 

And Hannibal comes in.

 

He doesn’t speak. He unbuttons the top of his pyjamas and leaves them on Will’s chair.

 

He moves steadily across the room to the left side (his side) of the bed. He takes off his pyjama bottoms and slips into bed beside Will.

 

They look at each other and Will waits (tasting the strange, foreign feelings flitting through Hannibal) to see what he’ll do.

 

Hannibal stares at him, the way he tends to when he’s not trying to look normal, focused and unblinking and too close. His hand settles gently at the side of Will’s face. His thumb strokes the outline of Will’s ear. Then he closes the gap between them and kisses Will.

 

It’s…odd. Discordant.

 

It feels good. (Except it doesn’t).

 

It’s nice. (Except it makes him want to run-)

 

It’s-

 

Will pulls back.

 

They stare at each other for a moment. It’s about enough time for Will to conclude that Hannibal looks lost-

 

Then he’s leaning forward again, kissing Will. His hand moves to Will’s shoulder pressing him back. He’s on top of Will and-

 

Even after all the time in Lightcap’s care he feels like he’s all muscle. He’s warm and solid and his skin feels wonderful under Will’s hands and his lips are so soft and-

 

He feels distant. As if he’s focused on something else.

 

He kisses as if it’s a test and there’s nothing mechanically wrong with it. Will shifts and he can feel all the muscles in Hannibal’s back tense. He’s not even remotely hard-

 

And it strikes Will that the whole thing _is_ mechanical.

 

He puts his palm gently on Hannibal’s chest and pushes just a little. Hannibal breaks away.

 

Will’s breathing hard. He takes a moment to calm it.

 

“What are you doing?” Will asks softly.

 

“Whatever you want.” Hannibal whispers.

 

Will sighs. He plants a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder and pushes until Hannibal rolls off.

 

“You don’t though.” Will says finally. “Want.”

 

“Does it matter?”

 

It might, Will isn’t sure. There’s something…..powerful about the idea that Hannibal doesn’t want this and would do it anyway, for Will. It feels like holding the little make shift knife did, while Hannibal sat calm and quiet, waiting for Will to decide how to scar him.

 

Will shakes his head, tries to translate the discomfort in Hannibal.

 

“Why are you doing this?” He asks aloud.

 

Hannibal tries to turn away. Will catches his wrist, puts his palm flat against the scars.

 

“You want something.” Will states. “I want to know what it is.”

 

“You.”

 

“You’ve _got_ me.”

 

“No.” Hannibal says quietly and it feels horribly, crushingly like truth. “I don’t.”

 

Will pulls him closer. It’s not true. And it is-

 

“You don’t have to do that to make me stay.”

 

“What would you have me do?”

 

Will doesn’t know. He can see pieces of what Hannibal is thinking though, the boat Hannibal thought of buying him and the meals he imagined they’d eat together and the beautiful places they’d go-

 

How they’d kill Lightcap together.

 

He hasn’t settled on a method exactly, but there is a presentation he has in mind.

 

Will closes his eyes and sees her split into perfect halves, each sitting on their own chair with her heart strung out in the empty gap between them.

 

He slings his arm over Hannibal’s chest and runs his fingers through the hair.

 

“We’re not going to do that.” Will says softly. “It’s-it’s _beautiful_ but we’re not going to do that.”

 

Hannibal doesn’t ask aloud but his question is obvious from the set of his shoulders, the way Will knows his mouth would be pressed closed-

 

“We’d get caught. And I’m not letting them put us in a cage again.”

 

Hannibal is silent for a moment.

 

“You think it’s beautiful?”

 

“Yes.” Will breathes.

 

Hannibal’s hand covers his. It strikes Will suddenly that Hannibal probably would do anything he asked. Anything at all.

 

“Do you know when I’m telling the truth?” He wonders.

 

Hannibal nods.

 

“I’m not- I can't always be here.” Will says and it sounds like a trite explanation but he has no idea how to say that walls feel like a trap. That he always felt better alone. On the lake. On a boat-

 

“But I’ll always come back.” He promises.

 

He feels like he should say that Hannibal doesn’t need to do anything to keep him close, but sooner or later they’re going to argue about something and then it might not be true anymore.

 

Hannibal squeezes his hand. Will sighs.

 

“I don’t _need_ you to have sex with me.” It feels like a ridiculous thing to say.

 

“It’s what you want.”

 

“If you have a better reason to want to sure.”

 

Hannibal isn’t sure what Will thinks a ‘better reason’ would be. Will isn’t sure either.

 

“Take your time.” Will says finally. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Eventually they fall asleep.

 

-

 

Beverly heard them heading to the kitchen as she woke up. From her room it was just a murmur of voices, foot steps-

 

She took her time getting up but she couldn’t exactly put off seeing Will and Hannibal-goddamn-Lecter forever.

 

They were still talking when she came out into the corridor. She could hear it clearly enough to be sure it wasn’t English and she didn’t think it was French. She padded out, barefoot, into the living room. Hannibal was sitting on the island in the kitchen with his back to her. Will was beside him, head bent and focused.

 

“-Katine, tu verti mano rankas slysti.” Will said.

 

“Katine?”

 

“O tu rinktumeis Saldainiuk?” Will replied in tone that sounded teasing.

 

That was when she saw the blood.

 

Hannibal’s right arm was stretched over a bowl. To catch his blood-

 

It looked very bright, very red, against his skin.

 

“Tu esi pasibaisėtinas.” Hannibal sounded mildly annoyed.

 

She couldn’t quite see what Will was doing bent over his arm.

 

“Oi galėtų būt baisiau.” Will answered, she could see his mouth start to curl up as if he couldn’t quite hold back a smile. “Aš galėčiau grasinti tau, tave vadindamas ‘mylimuoju’. Net aš žinau, kad tai senamadiška. Laikykis tvirtai.”

 

Beverly saw the knife when she moved round, steady in Will’s hand. He made small, neat incisions and neither of them _looked_ upset so she probably _shouldn’t_ interrupt. She wondered if she should turn around and sneak back into her room. Only the kitchen had coffee-

 

“Ir laikausi stipriai.” Hannibal paused and for a moment she thought one of them had finally noticed her but he just tilted his head at Will then went on. “Ar tu tikrai taip nekenti būti pavadintas ‘mylimuoju’?”

 

“O tu žinotum, jeigu nekęsčiau.”

 

Beverly cleared her throat. Will jerked backwards startled. Hannibal didn’t.

 

“Hi.” Beverly said.

 

Hannibal inclined his head. “Good morning Miss Katz.”

 

Will fidgeted awkwardly beside him, as if he wasn’t sure what do with his blood stained hands.

 

“Sveiki.” He said and Hannibal seemed to scoff.

 

“Try again.”

 

“доброе-”

 

“That’s Russian.” Hannibal interrupted.

 

Will elbowed him. If it wasn’t for the blood and the kitchen knife it would have been pretty domestic. It sort of still was.

 

“Good morning.” Will said finally, glaring at Hannibal instead of glancing towards Beverley.

 

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.” Hannibal replied as if that made perfect sense.

 

Beverly decided she needed coffee before she even looked at them again.

 

“I was thinking Sanguinaccio Dolce,” Hannibal said, it took Beverly a moment to realise he was probably still talking to Will. “Yes, with chocolate- I assure you it’s quite delicious. The blood adds a richness- I believe you’d appreciate it.”

 

Beverly sighed. There wasn’t enough coffee. There would probably never be enough coffee.

 

She put it in the press to brew anyway.

 

Then she turned back to look at them. They looked…relaxed. She sighed again and came up beside Will. He twitched a little but he didn’t flinch away and she stayed what was apparently a respectful distance.

 

After a while he turned back to cutting Hannibal’s forearm.

 

It looked like Chinese.

 

“What is it?” Beverly wondered, because apparently she didn’t have a sense of self-preservation anymore.

 

“It’s a poem-” Will replied.

 

“-by Li Zhiyi.” Hannibal finished.

 

She didn’t have a clue who that was so she just nodded. Probably classical and literary. Probably less important than coffee.

 

She poured her coffee. It was good. Incredibly good.

 

The label said it was from St Helena and Beverly decided she didn’t need to know any more than that. She didn’t need to know what Hannibal Lecter thought was a reasonable price for coffee.

 

“You two made up then?” Beverly asked from the safety of the other side of the kitchen.

 

She turned when Will didn’t answer immediately. He was nodding.

 

“-Yeah. Yeah we did.”

 

“Well thank God for that.”

 

She caught Will smirking out of the corner of her eye and found herself returning his smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lithuanian 
> 
> W ‘-Cat, you’re making my hands slip.”  
> H- ‘Cat?’  
> W- ‘Would you prefer Candy?’  
> H- ‘You’re appalling.’  
> W- ‘Oh it could be worse. I could be threatening to call you ‘beloved’, even I know that’s old fashioned. Hold still.’  
> H- ‘I am still. Do you truly hate to be called ‘beloved’?’   
> W- ‘You’d know if I did.’
> 
> I'm reliably informed that all the endearments used are relatively common and used for men.
> 
> Poetry
> 
> Li Zhiyi, River Song, ‘I wish your heart will be like mine’，'I only hope his heart’s like mine’
> 
> Final note-
> 
> Inspiration isn’t the right word. Sometimes I read about something and it worms it’s way into my skull, it works itself under my skin like a canker. And it colours what I write, changes the palette and tone. I believe that stories have power. Let’s see if I can do something with that. 
> 
> I couldn’t have written this without first reading about Elsie Lacks, which is much more horrific and disturbing than the story I’ve written. 
> 
> Elsie was committed to a mental ward as a child in the 50s. Elsie was mentally handicapped (the diagnosis of the time was ‘idiocy’) she was epileptic and deaf. She was also black. The hospital she was kept in was almost 800 people over maximum capacity when she died, there were 225 patients for every doctor. The wards were not separated by sex or age and some of the patients were sex offenders. There were no toilets, just drains in the floor, there weren’t enough beds. Elsie was used in at least two, and possibly more, medical experiments. There’s no evidence the hospital sought consent and given her age and capacities Elsie may not have been capable of giving it*. One involved inserting metal probes into patient’s brains. The other drained the fluid from a patient’s skull so the brain could be x-rayed, a procedure that causes dizziness, vomiting, seizures and headaches for months while the skull refills with fluid and can also cause permanent brain damage and paralysis. Elsie died after making herself vomit for six months. By the end she was bringing up clotted blood. 
> 
> There’s a photo in her file. Her eyes bulge, her face is bruised and she’s held in place by large white hands, around her throat and head.
> 
> To learn from history I think we need to remember the bad as well as the good. We need to try and understand, not romanticise. This is one person, one story, sixty years ago. But I’m not convinced we’ve learnt as much as we should.
> 
> She died when she was 15. The only reason I know enough to tell you about this is that her mother’s famous and her sister went searching for answers decades afterwards. Her name was Elsie Lacks.
> 
> *To be clear Elsie was non-verbal and never taught to use an alternative method of communication. So she may not have been able to physically communicate understanding and consent even if the procedures were explained to her and she was asked.


End file.
